


Long & Lost

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, dance puppets dance!, honestly this is the angstiest thing i've ever written so consider yourself warned, ot5 feels up the wazoo!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8742964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: Retrograde Amnesia. Zayn’s learning all kinds of things about the brain and memory, and how the brain accesses memory. It’s interesting – he’s always been silently intrigued by these kind of things, loving to read the Wikipedia articles in his spare time. It’s different, though, when it’s happening to you.   Especially when the likelihood of his memory returning decreases with every hour that he can’t recall anything past July 2014.Set early 2015.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This should be finished by the end of the month. Happy reading :)
> 
> Title named after the Florence + The Machine song.

When Zayn wakes, it’s to a cacophony of noise.

First, there’s the distant beeping, like Zayn’s underwater and the sound is coming from dry ground. It picks up frequency, but only slightly, as he realises the other sounds around him.

They’re not loud, but his ears feel both sensitive and stuffed with cotton wool. He feels fuzzy and warm; like he’s slept in just the right amount. He could easily slip back into blissful sleep, if he wanted, but the soft murmurs surrounding him grab his attention in an uncharacteristic way.

“–he’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.” 

“You heard what the doctor said. Concussion and a broken arm. It could have been a lot worse.” 

“Thanks, Niall. That’s making all of us feel so much better.” 

“What?” Niall’s voice gets a little louder as it takes on a defensive tone, and Zayn hears some rustling before his bandmate is speaking softly again, “At least this way we can finish the tour.” 

There’s an uneasy silence that follows. Even though Zayn’s eyes are closed, he can sense it. The soft cotton sheets underneath him still beckon him towards sleep, but Zayn pushes through the fogginess and opens his eyes, blinking his vision into focus. He brings up a hand to wipe the sleep from them, wincing slightly at the tug on his hand – the pull of the IV is something Zayn doesn’t want to think about. 

The bed he’s in is slightly upright, enough that Zayn doesn’t feel like he needs to sit up to get a painless view of the room. He’s thankful, considering his left arm is bulky with a cast. 

 _Huh. So it_ is _broken._  

Though his body is still feeling slightly sluggish, his brain is firing all cylinders go. So when he sees the rest of his band there, he’s not surprised, not even remotely confused.

“What happened?” He croaks, and then there’s a plastic cup of water shoved right near his face, courtesy of Louis. He might be able to think relatively clearly, but the events that took place before he wound up in what must be a private hospital are unclear. Very normal, Zayn thinks, if any of the medical dramas he’s watched are accurate.

“You fell off the stage during soundcheck like a right tit.” Louis explains, eyebrows raised like he’s entirely unimpressed. Zayn doesn’t frown, though he wants to. Usually Louis is all for careless acts of what Zayn would describe as tomfoolery, for lack of a better word. “Banged your head up and broke an arm while you were at it.”

“Louis,” Harry warns, as if Zayn’s injuries are far more serious than Louis’ offhand description made them out to be. “Play nice.”

Louis sighs, put upon, and crosses his arms indignantly. 

Zayn quietly sips at his water, his throat feeling a lot better despite the prickling unease at his spine. He doesn’t really want to ask, but the last he remembers they weren’t exactly on tour and they definitely weren’t due to perform in any capacity that night. 

“How long was I out?” he questions, putting his cup on the bedside. There aren’t any flowers, or any kind of calendar to indicate the passing of time. The room itself is relatively bare apart from its occupants, Zayn’s sheets an off-white and boring. A TV sits, turned off, in the corner. It seems quiet, for a hospital.

“Not long,” Niall replies, and Zayn looks at him properly for the first time. His hair looks longer, like he’s been running his hands through it and pulling it away from his scalp in stress. His clothes are rumpled, like he’s been in them too long. Zayn doesn’t know what to think. He feels like he’s missed a step going down the stairs, or forgotten what he was just about to say. “They put you back under to make sure there wasn’t any lasting damage. Er,” He looks uncomfortable, “I mean, any lasting injury. You don’t have brain damage.” 

The door to Zayn’s room opens then, right as Niall’s mouth shuts. All of them look over, and it’s then that Zayn realises why he’s been feeling so clueless.

“Liam,” Zayn breathes, seeing him. He’s followed by a woman in a white coat. A doctor.

“Mr Malik,” She announces, shifting his attention briefly from Liam to her. Liam brushes past her lightly, coming to stand on Zayn’s left. He looks like he wants to reach down and entwine their hands, but the cast stops him. Zayn feels warm all of a sudden, the first true emotion since he woke flying through him at the speed of light – bashfulness. “I’m Doctor Palmer. How are you feeling?”

Huh. And isn’t that odd, that none of the others had asked that simple question? Or maybe they had, and Zayn hadn’t heard, or noticed. There’s barely been time at all, he supposes, to hash out how everyone’s feeling, whether anyone else got hurt.

“I’m fine,” Zayn brushes her off, looking at Liam imploringly. He’s staring down at Zayn’s blanket-covered legs and frowning. “Is everyone else okay?”

“No one else got hurt. Don’t worry about it, Zayn.” Harry says softly, and Zayn catalogues the way he’s a few feet from the bed. If this were… if this were _normal_ , Zayn hesitates to ponder, then they’d be all over him like a rash, albeit a welcome one. 

“As I’m sure you’re feeling, you took a nasty hit to the head. I’m certain I don’t need to explain the cast to you.” She smiles, her eyes crinkling. It’s warm, and Zayn knows if things didn’t feel so off-centre he’d be calmed by it.

“Right,” Zayn replies impatiently, realising the throbbing at the back of his head isn’t merely his confusion. He’s not looking forward to sleeping with that as a backdrop. He misses the way Harry and Louis glance at each other, too busy frowning at the woman in front of him. “What’s this about a gig, though?”

The room freezes, like they’re in a sitcom and the narration is just about to play over the top to explain the situation, or send them into a flashback. Zayn’s not in a sitcom, though. He knows this well. If he were, he wouldn’t be half as miserable as his life tends to dictate, at least most of the time.

“Zayn,” Palmer says slowly. She looks mildly concerned, but it’s the wide eyes of Liam that make Zayn’s chest tight with nerves, “What do you remember?”

And suddenly it clicks.

Everything feels a little off because his memory is… it’s missing. It must be. Or, it’s incomplete, more like. He remembers the important things, the kind of things that if he were to forget, it would probably ruin his career. At least there’s that. But the tension he’s been feeling amongst the five of them since he woke is something he can’t explain, the context for it something he can’t remember.

In a strange haze of numbness that he’ll later realise to be shock, Zayn answers.

“We were touring the last album – Midnight Memories,” he clarifies at their blank faces. They’ve all become much better actors since he can remember, because none of their expressions change; although he’s not looking at Louis much, a little afraid of what he might see. “We were on break, though. I was at home. It was just before the American leg…” He trails off, frowning. His memory’s a little fuzzy around the edges, like he’s looking at it through lightly frosted glass. It’s easier to fade back into the present than work out the exact last thing he remembers, the pounding in his head now reaching unforgiving levels of pain. 

“Zayn,” Palmer starts. She doesn’t look worried, like he thought she might be. Instead, she looks eerily calm. He almost thinks it’s worse. “It seems you’re suffering from some memory loss. It’s not surprising, although of course not exactly preferable.”

The others remain silent. Zayn looks to Liam, the person he’s always relied on to be honest with him. He looks wrecked, which is not a good sign. Either something big has happened that means Zayn’s amnesia is a worse case scenario, or he’s at a loss for what to do. Liam’s his compass, in a way, so Zayn hopes it’s the former.

“We’ll have to keep you under observation. Start on some mental therapy the best we can.”

“Sorry, but where are we?” Zayn asks, looking around the room with a raised eyebrow. Niall snorts, and Zayn shoots him a wry grin. He may be in pain, but he’s trying to get some sort of reaction out of his best mates aside from worried glances and broken expressions. It’s a bit intense. He feels like he’s switched bodies with someone and has to learn everything all over again, like the relationships he has with the most important people in his life have changed so drastically he’s left adrift in a violent sea, untethered and alone.

“We’re in Australia,” Harry explains. His voice is soft, which isn’t unusual for him. It’s more that it’s unusual he speaks to Zayn that way. Their friendship is all cheeky grins and sexual innuendos. Even when he’s being thoughtful and checking up on Zayn, it’s with a grin and an offer of food. It’s never soft. They don’t do soft. Zayn ignores the squirming in his stomach, suddenly uncomfortable, and simply nods. “Just finishing up the shows here.” 

“You’ve got a few days before you have to be in Asia,” Doctor Palmer announces, and this time Liam _does_ touch Zayn’s arm, though it’s his elbow, right above the cast. Like always, the skin there tingles at the careful graze of Liam’s fingers. 

Zayn stiffens, but thankfully Liam doesn’t remove himself.

“Don’t worry,” Niall gives him a grin, taking in the tension of Zayn’s shoulders and assuming it has to do with what the doctor’s just told him. “There aren’t a load of changes to the songs from when you’ve probably last heard ‘em. You’ll pick ‘em up right away.”

“I advised against continuing to perform, but I can’t legally keep you here past 48 hours.” Doctor Palmer explains, and the slight purse of her lips gives away her irritation. Management’s spoken to her, obviously, and it doesn’t surprise Zayn that they’re wanting to go on with everything despite the fact it’s probably not medically advisable. Zayn understands, even if he doesn’t like it. Rescheduling costs money, and it’s not like his voice has suffered throughout all of this.

There’s a bone-deep exhaustion in his veins, though, if he lets himself pay attention to it. The kind of weariness he was only just beginning to experience weeks prior - which, now that he’s adjusting slightly, is probably months ago. He was going to talk to the boys about it, discuss a longer break between the end of tour and the start of album promo. If they approached management as a team, asked to delay the release of the album until January…

Well, it seems as if that didn’t happen.

“Right,” Louis breaks through the silence, and Zayn snaps back to reality to realise they’ve all been eyeing him suspiciously. Probably not the best to zone out when you’ve got a head injury, but thoughts are running through Zayn’s head faster than he’s used to. He’s out of his element, here, no matter how uncomfortable that thought makes him. He’s back to square one, cataloguing every reaction so he can learn how to manage people. When he was on The X-Factor, at least he had Liam by his side to help with that. 

Like he knows what Zayn’s thinking, Liam moves his hand from Zayn’s elbow to his shoulder, resting stiffly before relaxing into him, his thumb moving back and forth soothingly.

Zayn swallows heavily. 

“We’ll be off, then,” continues Louis, a little jerkily like he’s not sure what etiquette dictates. In some ways, this whole conversation has felt overly formal and yet… they’re still smiling a lot, still hesitantly joking. Zayn’s never been particularly fragile, at least physically. The unsettled feeling returns from its dormant state, and Zayn brings a hand up to rub as his breastbone, awkward and fumbling.

“Liam’ll sign you out after they’re finished with you.” he finishes, bouncing on the balls of his feet, jittery. Zayn wants to send him a piercing look, the kind Louis always responds to with an eye-roll and an explanation, but somehow it doesn’t feel like the time. 

“Feel better, Zayn.” Harry tells him, and Niall accompanies his grin with a wink as the three of them leave the hospital room. 

“We’ll just run a few memory tests, ask you a few questions,” Doctor Palmer states as the door closes behind three of his best mates. Her face is kind and patient, her black hair tied back and her dark brown eyes soft. Liam’s hand slides off Zayn’s shoulder, and it feels cold and exposed in its wake. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

***

 

He’s missing about six months, give or take a few days.

“Not too bad,” Palmer let him know that first day in hospital, even though the whiplash of the whole saga left him reeling, “I’ve seen some patients lose years. We can work with this, Zayn.” 

The annoying thing is, Zayn doesn’t really have a regular routine. Which is, apparently, the best way to combat such memory loss. Retrograde Amnesia. Zayn’s learning all kinds of things about the brain and memory, and how the brain accesses memory. It’s interesting – he’s always been silently intrigued by these kind of things, loving to read the Wikipedia articles in his spare time. It’s different, though, when it’s happening to you.

Especially when the likelihood of his memory returning decreases with every hour that he can’t recall anything past July 2014.

It’s 2015 now. He missed the New Year, which doesn’t really matter. Zayn almost feels like he’s gone back in time, not forward. He has the vague thought that maybe this is what time travel feels like. 

Their flight’s been changed to the 23rd, their first concert in Asia on the 24th. Zayn has three days to learn the new solos and hooks, and thirteen of those 72 hours he’s on a plane.

“Forget about the choreography,” Their tour choreographer tells them all that first day, where the others all look vaguely excited and Zayn just feels the nerves permeate through every inch of his body. “We’ll have to scrap it until after Dubai.”

“Dubai?” Zayn croaks out, his stomach flipping, “We’re playing Dubai?”

The others all look a little taken aback, like the hesitant grin on Zayn’s face is out of place. Liam is the first to recover, his large hand coming to rest on the small of Zayn’s back, familiar and grounding. 

“Of course, Zayn,” he says, smiling widely enough that his eyes crinkle. Zayn’s heart beats a little faster.

_Calm down._

“You’ve been looking forward to it for ages.”

Like a wire has been cut, his nerves settle. Dubai. He’s always wanted to play there, wasn’t sure they could, wasn’t sure they’d ever make it big enough to get there, for the label to deem it worth the expense.

“You’ve got about two months after Dubai before you start up in Europe,” the choreographer says. Zayn wishes he’d caught a name, but his ears are ringing a bit. He’ll ask later, Harry will know for sure. “We’ll work on an adapted choreography then. For now, I want all of you to look out for Zayn,” Before he can feel too offended, the choreographer goes on, looking at Zayn, “You don’t know where the pyrotechnics come out, you don’t know where from or when the confetti flies out. This is dangerous.” His gaze swivels to the others, “The four of _you_ know these things, so you need to watch him carefully.”

Liam’s arm comes up around Zayn’s shoulders after a pause, and Zayn is helpless to lean into him, the warmth of his side almost burning.

The four of them show Zayn around the stage a bit later, which is still being packed down after the gig in Perth where Zayn was missing, still in hospital. He feels bad about it, frowning when they tell him, but there’s not much he can do. He’ll send out a tweet later, probably. In fact, he’ll definitely peruse through his social media, and his mobile. It’s the first time he’s regretted not having a smartphone - it definitely would have made things easier to look through.

Liam and Louis are talking quietly behind them as Niall shows Zayn the backstage area. Harry’s loitering at the back, glued to his phone. 

It’s not much changed from the tour Zayn was just on, but it’s the small differences that take Zayn the longest to process, like how apparently he’s been spending more time in hotels than on the buses, and that Niall can’t remember the last thing he and Zayn did together, just the two of them. Zayn’s forehead hurts from frowning so much, but that’s not unusual. He’s still a little tender, and his left arm is still bulky with a cast, now signed by all of the band, and some of the crew. Zayn’s started to draw some of his own art on it, much to the delight of Liam who hasn’t really left his side since he returned early the next morning after the Perth concert and signed Zayn out. It’s not entirely unusual - Zayn would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased by it - but the tentative way all of them seem to be treating him, the lacklustre jokes… they’re _very_ unusual. Liam’s all over him normally, much to Zayn’s pleasure even if it makes him hurt more than it should. He’s been living with it, and he’s fine.

At least, he was. 2015 Zayn Malik, Zayn’s not so sure about. 

“Hey Pez,” he greets her over the phone, tucked away in an empty corridor of their hotel. They’ve been using one of the conference rooms to practise singing, but they’ve taken a break and Zayn figured it was about time he called, the guilt eating away at him.

“Hey,” she replies softly. Zayn closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool glass of a window. She’s always been soothing, a source of relaxation for him. “How are you feeling?” He must make some sort of confused noise, because she barrels on quickly, “Management let me know as soon as it happened.” 

“Is it late, back home?” he asks, realising he didn’t even bother to check the time. He assumes she’s in London. No one had said otherwise.

“A bit,” Perrie says, a smile in her voice. Zayn huffs out a laugh, apologetic. “Don’t worry about it, I was up anyway.”

“I’m alright,” he says after a short moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He runs his free hand over the shaved sides of his head, something he’s taken to doing to occupy his hands. It feels new, still, even though apparently he’s had it for a while. The length still confuses him, especially when he has to push it out of his face. He’s surprised Harry hasn’t tried to commiserate with him over it, but then again Harry hasn’t said much at all. “It’s a bit weird.”

“Yeah?” Perrie prompts, and he hears rustling, like she’s moving positions on her bed, or the couch, “I can imagine that.”

“We’re alright, though, aren’t we?” he blurts out, feeling as though his feet have been pulled out from under him. In many ways, she’s his best friend. They were pushed together for the same reasons, and although there’s nothing romantic there despite the ring on her finger, they still rely on each other, they still talk to each other about their problems.

“‘Course,” she answers quickly, and Zayn’s shoulders relax. He didn’t even realise he felt so tense, but the grip he had on the windowsill doesn’t hurt anymore, and he turns around to lean back against it instead. “What exactly do you remember, Zayn?”

“July last year’s the last thing that’s concrete, really.” He explains, frowning again. He pulls on his hair a bit, the slight sting grounding him, “We’d just finished up touring in Portugal.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Perrie says, and Zayn wonders whether they saw each other on that break, before he was on his way to North America. She had some time off, after Northern Ireland. He doesn’t want to ask, though. It seems rude, even though he doesn’t remember - like he should, like she expects him to. The first tendrils of frustration reach out and seize his mind at the expectation, and by the time they talk for a few more minutes and she bids him goodnight, wanting rest, they’ve twisted their way into every thought. 

It seems like the others have been waiting for it, when he snaps.

He can’t quite get the pre-chorus in _Clouds_ right. When they were working on the song last, it was a register higher. Now, it’s low and a little ominous and Zayn just – can’t. He can’t. He’s spent the last half hour fumbling through it and he’s had enough.

“Niall can just do it.” He spits, launching out of his seat to pace, clenching his jaw to stop the word vomit that’s likely to happen. When he’s angry, he doesn’t often think. The words come spewing out, and he doesn’t realise the damage he’s dealt until he sees the looks on people’s faces. Perrie tells him he has a knack for knowing people’s weak points, and that it makes arguments with him fraught with the fear that he’ll use those weaknesses against them.

“Niall can’t just _do_ it, Zayn.” Louis counters, snarky, “This is _your_ solo, _you’re_ doing it.”

“Why don’t _you_ fucking take it, then?” Zayn mutters darkly, looking away from all of them to stare at the wall behind, “You need more, anyway.”

If he’d said it kindly, without the viciousness, it could have been a nice gesture, a humble acknowledgement. Instead, Louis tenses up, and Zayn turns his head to see the kind of glare he’s familiar with, only this time it’s not at all playful.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry says sharply, stepping forward with a hand to Louis’s elbow. Louis’s hair is soft, but his expression is everything but. His eyes cut into Zayn, whose veins feel alight with fire, with a burning anger that seems to have been sleeping so deeply only to awaken in the blink of an eye.

He turns and stalks out of the room, ignoring the voices behind him.

“Forget about it, Lou. He’s stressed.” Harry’s voice follows him out, but Zayn’s anger triples.

He’s not just stressed. _Stressed_ is putting it lightly. He’s a whole other person, with new hair and a new tattoo. There are things he’s done that he can’t remember doing; can’t remember _why_ he did them or what he thought about it. His best friends can’t even talk to him properly, and his family aren’t around for him to be able to lean on; a few phone calls and some texts can’t tell him everything that’s happened in six months. And that’s the kicker - it’s only been _six months_. He should know by now that six months can change everything, but somehow he didn’t expect it to make things worse. It’s always made things _better_ , the passing of time. At least, it has since he started on this wild path.

He wants to punch a wall, but the last time he did that – way back in 2012, upset over Liam – he regretted it straight after. It’s not worth the pain, and he already has one arm out of commission. It aches at the thought, so he unclenches his fist, hoping to relieve some of the pressure.

He’s trying to count his breathing, deep and centred, when Liam joins him. 

The hallway is, thankfully, deserted. Zayn imagines it’s security’s doing, and takes a second to thank them in his head. He hasn’t encountered a fan yet, and he’s definitely not looking forward to it, not with the way he can’t seem to think straight, can’t wrap his head around what he means to everyone right now. He hangs his head between his shoulders, right palm now on the wall as he leans, tired. At Liam’s presence, the anger trickles away. Now he’s just tired, so tired. His head twinges in sympathy, reminding him of only a day’s old injury. It feels like it’s been a week, at least.

“I don’t want you to treat me like I’m gonna break, Liam,” he pushes out, a little embarrassed, He pushes off the wall, turning around to face his friend. “No one’s saying anything,” He lifts an arm, exasperated, “It’s like you’re all different. No one’s talking, you’re all just _looking_ at each other.” He’s aware he sounds a bit deranged, that he’s not making much sense at all. But Liam sucks his bottom lip into his mouth like he knows what Zayn’s talking about, inhaling deeply.

“I’m sorry,” Liam apologises, and Zayn takes a moment to look at him properly whilst he pauses. 

His hair’s still shorn short, which is surprising. It’s always been a symbol of starting over for Liam, and Zayn, of course, doesn’t know what would have happened to have him shave his head this time. In 2014, his hair was short, recovering from the haircut. His grey joggers seem daggy instead of comfortable, his stubble unkempt instead of fashionable, the small toothpaste stain on his t-shirt obnoxious instead of endearing. He looks completely different in so many ways, Zayn almost feels like he’s a different person. 

Liam looks tired, first and foremost. He looks unsure. Zayn doesn’t want to know why, and yet it’s all he can think about.

“We’re all sorry. It’s been… it’s been strange, is all.”

“And it’s not weird for me?” Zayn counters, though there’s no heat behind it. Liam chuckles, moving closer. A warm palm curves over Zayn’s shoulder, and then he’s pulled gently into a hug.

It’s not that they’ve never hugged before – in fact, they’ve hugged loads of times, more than Zayn’s probably hugged any of the others. But this feels different. Liam’s almost lingering, like he doesn’t want to let go. It’s the kind of hug Zayn’s learned to expect from people who want a bit more from him, from people who he may have kissed and suddenly they think they’re a lot more intimate than Zayn ever wanted them to be.

He brings his hands up, helpless to it, and circles them around Liam’s waist, pushing himself closer so his face is buried into Liam’s neck. If Liam’s hugging him like this, Zayn’s not going to say no. He’s going to make the most of it.

Zayn sighs, the remnants of tension draining out of him. Liam has always had that effect, but it’s never been so quick before. 

“We’ll sort it,” Liam murmurs, pulling back a bit to grab Zayn’s face between his hands. His face is so close, and Zayn flicks his eyes down to his lips before he makes eye contact again, fighting against the blush trying to form on his bearded cheeks. “You’ve done it before, Zayn. You’ve just got to stop trying so hard.” 

He can’t help it. Zayn snorts, features melting into a smile. Liam grins at him, pleased.

“Yeah, alright.” Zayn murmurs. Liam’s thumbs drag across his cheeks before they slide down and away.

“Come on, then,” urges Liam, pulling Zayn into him and placing an arm around his shoulders, jostling the both of them as he turns back toward the door.

The vibe isn’t as tense when they return – probably due to the fact Zayn has a small smile on his face – and although neither he nor Louis apologise, they’re fine.

He doesn’t miss the grateful look Harry sends Liam, though; but with Liam’s arm so warm around him, Zayn finds he doesn’t mind so much.

 

***

 

“When did this happen, anyway?” Zayn asks, gesturing vaguely to Harry’s head. It’s five minutes until they have to go on stage, Osaka chanting as they wait. 

“What?” Harry asks through a mouthful of fruit salad, his sheer floral shirt gaping. 

Zayn tamps down a fond smile. Things have been a little better since he and Liam spoke in the hallway. The atmosphere’s nowhere near as tense – it seems as if they’re not waiting for Zayn to snap at them anymore, not waiting for the other shoe to drop. They’re a lot calmer, and Zayn feels the same as a result; his moods have always been in tune with the others’. Their soundcheck earlier that day went as smoothly as expected. The choreography’s a mess, and Zayn is mostly sticking to one area of the stage right near Liam, but he sounds good. They _all_ sound good. The best they’ve ever sounded, if Zayn’s being honest. At the pleasant surprise on Niall’s face earlier when they’d hit the harmonies _just_ right, he’s guessing they’re all thinking similarly.

“Oh, this?” Harry asks, jerking Zayn from his thoughts. He looks up, like he can see his own curls, like the length is something he can judge without a mirror. “Been growing it out a while.”

Zayn hums, looking over the way Harry holds himself, seems more confident. He’s older, definitely. If Zayn hadn’t known any better, he would have guessed years had passed, not months. His hair’s longer, but it’s the way he stands a little taller, the way his voice pushed a little further during rehearsals, the way his jaw cuts a little sharper, and the way his eyes follow Louis and refuse to look away – it’s in those ways that Zayn can really tell time has passed.

“It suits you.” Zayn remarks with a smirk, giving Harry a hard slap on the back before he adjusts his in-ear a bit, uncomfortable with the feeling even after all these years. His hair’s pulled up tight, unfamiliar, but it was better than leaving it out. He’s not sure he’d survive a whole concert with it like that, most likely too tempted to shave the rest of his head.

“Ready, lads?” Louis asks, the chants suddenly reaching deafening heights as the lights go out. _Clouds_ is their opener, and Zayn feels alive with anticipation. The intro video starts, and Niall’s jumping up and down lightly, his guitar slung over his back.

Louis glances at Zayn, hesitating barely a second before he shoves his hand out, ready for their pre-show ritual.

Zayn stretches his neck before following suit, Niall’s clammy hand landing on top of his soon after.

Although it’s been, in his head, about a week since he last performed, Zayn feels like he’s come home. The stage, no matter how daunting, no matter how crucifying, has always been exhilarating. Although it leaves him knackered and more likely to crash in his bed straight after than go out like Harry does, and sometimes Liam, the feelings that charge through him whilst he’s in the moment are indescribable. He’d liken it to sex, but he’s always felt that cheapens the experience.

Liam skips over to him after Zayn’s successful solo, both of them belting out the chorus. Zayn’s grinning like mad, singing through it like he’s been trained all these years. The way Liam’s hand sits on his waist makes his breath hitch a little after the chorus, where Harry and Niall go into the bridge. He finds himself singing along, microphone by his side, his shoulders moving to the beat. Liam’s beaming, and they’re both moving in tandem now, like some sort of synchronised dance. Zayn pushes him away with a laugh, nose scrunching up to hide his fondness. It’s both too much and not enough, and although he doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be on stage, no mark he needs to hit, Zayn strides forward down the middle like he has to end up right in front of the crowd for the song’s finish. Louis joins him on the runway, smirking like he’s doing Zayn a favour. And Zayn supposes he is - they’re all orienting themselves around him, going off of his cues, making it look like the show’s choreography has simply changed, not been obliterated by memory loss.

“Hello, Osaka!” Harry yells into the microphone, the responding screams of the crowd nearly making Zayn wince. He waves at a few fans, smiling. He’s missed this, missed the boys and the way they make him feel on stage, missed the screams and the echo of their own lyrics.

The lights illuminate for the second song of the night, transforming the venue into a rainbow of colour, the wristbands lighting up to the beat. Even though Zayn watched a few videos of the set earlier that day, experiencing it is a whole other animal. He sees the glee on some fans’ faces, when the light catches them a certain way. He and Louis are still at the end of the runway. As the piano starts up, he turns, sees Niall ditch his guitar on the big screen and do a quick jog to join the two of them, clapping Zayn on the back and grinning so wide it’s nearly blinding. Suddenly, he’s sandwiched between the two of them, rocking side to side as he sings the first verse, trying to fight off the way Louis’s attempting to pinch him.

They’re still moving like that when Niall finishes up his lyric, all of them punching the air as the chorus starts, separating. The crowd’s going wild, wilder than Zayn ever remembers them going during the Where We Are Tour. Maybe it’s the lack of choreography, the way they’re all surprising them. Regardless, the vibration of their screaming and the way the music is reverberating throughout the dome leaves Zayn breathless.

As he prepares to hit his high note, he realises they’re all at the end of the runway now, Liam a few feet from him. Suddenly, the crowd’s hands are in the air, swaying side to side. He’s on the end, so he looks down the line and sees Harry and Niall, swinging their own hands. He shakes his head, amused, and the song finishes with the five of them quiet as the crowd sings the last line. 

“Osaka!” Harry drawls, long and low. Louis rolls his eyes, but Zayn’s not an idiot. He’s staring at Harry like he’s the best thing since sliced bread - and Louis loves bread. 

The concert goes on, the crowd more alive than Zayn can remember a crowd being. He knows they announced he’d injured himself, and the cast is obvious enough. But the way they’re all screaming when he shows up on the big screen is especially telling, because Zayn’s not sure the admiration for him has ever been so blatant. It makes him a little uncomfortable, a lot jittery, but Harry’s attempt at a dickslap during Midnight Memories keeps him on his toes and makes him forget to feel uneasy.

He’s sweating, more than he’s used to, once the chords to _Don’t Forget Where You Belong_ kick in. He’s more comfortable with the song than the newer ones, of course, but the choreography is alien to him still. Niall gestures for him to sit, and he knows that _Little Things_ is next so he acquiesces, placing himself next to Harry. The breather’s nice, though the song seems a lot more emotional this tour than it had when Zayn had last sung it.

He glances at Liam during _Little Things_ , because he can’t not glance at Liam during _Little Things_. It’s second nature by now, and Zayn’s long ago stopped caring how it looks.

The concert loses some of its energy a little, and Zayn realises that it’s not just him, but _all_ of them tiring. He’d thought with his injuries that maybe he wasn’t quite well enough, but Liam’s sweated through his plaid overshirt to the point where he’s removed it, and Harry’s got a few more buttons open on his own shirt. Louis looks like he just took a shower, and Niall’s flushed bright red.

He’s still hyped up on adrenaline, the unfamiliarity of the whole experience making him unable to keep still, legs bouncing when they’re sitting down and light jogs across the stage to look at the other side of the audience when they’re standing. When they get to _What Makes You Beautiful_ , Zayn’s ready to get all of them going again.

They’ve done it once before, but the look of surprise on Liam’s face – raised eyebrows and wide eyes – makes it obvious that Zayn probably hasn’t participated in this kind of thing in a while. He stops himself before his frown can take over his face, raising a baiting eyebrow at Liam instead.

When they rip open Harry’s shirt at the conclusion of his solo, Zayn’s running, glimpsing the gobsmacked look on Harry’s face only briefly before retreating to the main stage, hiding amongst the musicians whilst Harry throws water at Liam in retaliation. 

They’ve amped it up again, the crowd delighted at Harry showing more skin. By the time the finale begins, lasers everywhere, Zayn’s fully expecting a reenactment of the song’s music video, considering the way Harry’s leering at him.

He doesn’t get it, which he’s thankful for, and finds himself showing off a reserved dance move to Niall as he passes him during the chorus, nearly falling over at his violent hip check, Niall cackling through his lyrics.

“That was–” Liam starts, staring at Zayn as they all group together backstage right after, sweaty and breathing heavily.

“Welcome back, shithead!” Niall cackles, jumping onto Zayn’s back at a run, almost causing them to topple over. Zayn grunts at the weight, rolling his eyes.

“I never left, ya idiot.” The endearment comes out in a drawl thanks to his accent, and Zayn sees Harry repeat it to himself, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis snipes, pushing Niall off of Zayn, “Zayn’s not a dickhead anymore, we’re all really excited.”

He’s smirking despite his sarcasm, though, so Zayn gives him a shove.

“Celebratory drinks, lads?” Louis asks, looking around at all of them. Harry’s got a hand on his wrist. Zayn looks away, trying not to smirk. “Zayn didn’t die by pyrotechnics, that’s something to celebrate.”

“Thanks, mate.” he counters sarcastically, grinning. Liam’s hand falls heavy and sweaty on the back of Zayn’s neck. He finds he doesn’t mind, though, when Liam gives a squeeze. Zayn looks to him, moving closer. His eyes are crinkling slightly, and he’s staring at Zayn like he’s a whole new person.

“I’m in.” says Niall, which is no surprise to anyone, even Zayn. Six months can’t change that.

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, finding himself willing to keep up the good cheer despite the weariness in his sore muscles, the pounding in his head, and the aching of his left forearm. “No alcohol, though. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re no fun, Malik,” Louis comments, though he doesn’t look pissed off like he might usually at such a comment. “Liam?”

Liam jerks, looking away from Zayn, whose cheeks are now flushed. He’s thankful he can blame it on the gig, and not on the way Liam’s eyes were searching his face.

“Yeah, o’ course.”

Harry’s attendance isn’t questioned, and Zayn resolves to pester Louis about this possible new development. Last he remembers, they were still dancing around each other. At least, as far as he knew. Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been together this whole time, actually.

Harry finds the club. Zayn showers – thanks whoever decided it that he has a waterproof cast – and gets changed, still in some black jeans although these ones are a more stylishly ripped pair. He’s switched out his striped t-shirt for a black henley, tight and flattering. His wardrobe this tour seems a lot more basic, but it suits him just fine – makes sense considering he chose these clothes, even if he can’t remember it.

He decides to leave his hair out, running an absent hand through it as he grabs his keycard, phone, and I.D. The legal drinking age is twenty in Japan, and he’s famous, but Zayn always likes to have it on him in case something happens.

They regroup back at the car, Liam having organised it. Harry’s got his phone out to give the driver directions.

They’re all in slightly dressier versions of what they wore on stage, except for Liam, who’s donning black jeans instead of blue, and a navy button-down. He looks good, _really_ good. Zayn tears his eyes away, flicking his hair out of his eyes to smirk at the way Harry’s leg pushes into Louis’.

The club is like any other club all over the world, with maybe a slightly more alternative playlist, which is probably what made Harry choose it. There are people everywhere, which is surprising considering it’s a Tuesday. But maybe that’s precisely why Harry chose this place. Zayn gives up on figuring it out, not really bothered.

It must be a club used to international visitors because although the bartender is Japanese, she speaks fluent English. Although, Zayn will admit, people living in the major cities in Japan tend to.

His eyes are drawn to the ink on her arm, stark against her skin. It’s a tiger, caught mid-prowl. Its eyes are sharp and discerning. Zayn loves it, rubbing the hidden snake on his right shoulder in commiseration. Seeing his gaze, she smirks. He thanks her for the drinks, ignoring her lingering gaze to turn back to Liam and shove one of the vodka mixers into his waiting hands. He’s close, closer than Zayn’s used to. It’s nearing spring in Japan, but Zayn feels entirely too hot, the shower from before feeling useless in the face of it.

Liam’s face moves down next to Zayn’s, his lips brushing Zayn’s ear as he shouts to be heard over the thump of the bass.

“I thought you said no alcohol?” He pulls back to smile at Zayn, amused, taking a sip of his own drink. 

Zayn leans in, his lips grazing Liam’s cheekbone before migrating to his ear, fighting off a shiver.

“One won’t hurt.” He explains, and it’s probably not a good idea, but it definitely won’t kill him. He’s off medication now, as his aching arm can attest. Zayn’s not a doctor, but he’s young, and he’s definitely put worse things in his body at worse times. He’ll be fine.

Liam raises an eyebrow, still smiling, but backs up a bit. Zayn can’t help the flash of disappointment that runs through him, but he’s used to the feeling by now, especially when it comes to Liam.

They return to their V.I.P. booth, the other three cheering at the sight of drinks. Zayn shoves the full glasses at them and Niall’s finished his in seconds, always too eager at the beginning of a hard night.

“Shots.” Harry announces, staring at Niall’s empty glass. “How many shots can you do in thirty seconds, Niall?” 

“No,” Liam laughs, shaking his head. His left forearm brushes Zayn’s right as he moves. “Not this again. You may have won last time, Niall, but Harry definitely won the next day.” 

“Agh!” Niall exclaims, waving Liam away like it’s nonsense. 

“What happened?” Zayn asks, intrigued but feeling a little awkward he has to ask. Liam turns to him, smile diminishing a bit but still remaining.

“Harry bet Niall the same thing in September. He beat some record, but let’s just say the next day was not pretty. Thankfully it was a day off for all of us.”

“It honestly wasn’t that bad.” Niall remarks lightly, shrugging.

“Yeah, alright, Nialler,” Louis says, smirk growing into a full-blown grin. “Let’s see it, then.” Zayn doesn’t miss the way Harry tries not to laugh, biting the inside of his lip.

“Just remember we’ve got a gig tomorrow, alright?” Liam finishes, obviously giving up on trying to save his Irish friend from a certain terrible hangover. It’s amusing, because Zayn spies that he’s finished his drink as well.

Everything feels light, even though Zayn stuck to only the one drink. There’s an ease to their group that he feels might be foreign, even though he remembers it being like this very recently for him. Liam’s a lot closer than he’s used to, which Zayn is still trying to fathom. He wants to know, desperately, why this is the case, but keeps quiet. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, so to speak, and ruin this new closeness. New to him, at least. Liam’s never touched him this much. They’re all touches that could be taken as friendly – Zayn’s not entirely deluded, despite his feelings – but they linger a little, like the hug they’d shared in that hotel hallway. Perth feels both millennia away, and like it was yesterday.

Liam’s on his fourth or fifth drink, still chuckling at Niall’s glassy-eyed expression post-shots when he drags him up to dance. Zayn resists at first, not nearly enough alcohol in him not to, but the others push him out of the booth with teasing jeers and Zayn is painfully reminded of the embarrassment he faced when he refused to dance on The X-Factor. He’s never lived it down, even after the lessons Liam gave him.

The distance between them remains close on the dance floor, but more of their bodies touch as they move, brushing against each other. Zayn doesn’t recognise any of the songs, but that’s not surprising.

“You love this one!” Liam shouts in his ear after a few, a new and funkier beat replacing the older, stale one.

It should be weird – and Zayn guesses that if it were anybody but Liam, he might be annoyed at the presumption – but he does like it, quite a bit. Although it’s mostly Liam’s dance moves and accompanying vocals that make the song fantastic. Zayn’s always liked observing Liam when he’s not worried about cameras, or what the fans will think. He’s confident and carefree, and he almost makes Zayn wish they were just two regular people, maybe friends who met at uni. The kind of people, at least, who could maybe have a messy snog on a dance floor and it not be blasted all over the front page of some trashy tabloid the next morning. Maybe then, Zayn might have made a move by now.

The thought sits heavy in his gut, but he pushes it down deep. It’s stupid – Zayn’s not that different now to how he would have been had he not been a part of One Direction. At least, he doesn’t think so. Knowing himself, he probably wouldn’t _ever_ had made a move, not unless he knew for sure that Liam was in it one hundred percent. And there’s really no way to know that. Liam is… Zayn doesn’t even know if Liam’s not straight, which is a laugh. 

Niall crashes into them, and Zayn barely catches him, locking his arms around Niall’s waist to hold him steady. The blond’s screaming something unintelligible, and Zayn shares an amused glance with Liam, whose eyebrows are raised comically.

Harry and Louis are nowhere to be seen, but that’s not surprising, either. Zayn really needs to have that talk with Louis.

When Zayn goes to let go of his friend, Niall almost collapses, which basically tells Zayn that they need to wrap it up, or they’ll be dragging Niall out of the club by his ankles, unconscious and moaning.

“I think we need to go!” Zayn yells to Liam, jerking his head toward Niall, who’s hanging off of him clumsily. Liam frowns, but it clears once he takes a closer look at Niall’s face. Although Liam’s not sober, he’s not exactly drunk, either, so the both of them manage to corral Niall out a side entrance and into the back of a waiting car, both following closely behind him with a request to take the three of them back to the hotel.

They deposit Niall onto his hotel bed, taking off his shoes and leaving some painkillers beside his head for the morning. Making sure he’s not lying on his back is about all they can do before they shut the door on his loud snores, leaning against the wall outside.

Liam’s giggling a bit, which in turn makes Zayn smile.

“What?” He asks, when Liam quietens down just to stare at him.

“Nothing.” Liam says slowly, poking Zayn’s cheek with affection, his finger dragging across his jaw before dropping entirely. Zayn’s smile fades, and he’s searching Liam’s face… for s _omething_ , he doesn’t know. He can’t _remember_.

“I’m tired.” Liam announces loudly, and Zayn rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, time for bed.”

Now that Niall’s dealt with, the alcohol hits Liam like a freight train. He’s stumbling, struggling to slide the keycard through the lock of his own room, only managing once Zayn circles his wrist and guides the movement.

When he collapses onto the bed, it’s with a great big sigh. Zayn bites his lip to hold in his smile.

“M gon’ crinkle m’ shirt…” Liam mumbles, looking down at his button down, which is a little sweaty, although free of alcohol. He tries to rip it open, and Zayn snorts before grabbing at his hands, unbuttoning it for him. Unlikely that they’ll get it off fully, but it’ll appease drunk Liam enough that he can go to sleep.

Once Zayn finishes, Liam’s warm hands fumble with the edge of Zayn’s own henley, trying to force it up. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Zayn laughs, pushing at Liam’s hands.

“C’mon,” Liam whines, trying again. He’s slow, though, so Zayn easily dodges him, “Stay w’ me.”

Zayn freezes. 

“What?” His voice sounds dull, void of emotion. Liam grabs his cast-free hand in his shock, his hands a little clammy as they push Zayn’s bare palm into Liam’s navel. Liam’s skin is warm and slightly flushed. His eyes are half-lidded.

Zayn rips his hand away, straightening so quickly he almost feels whiplash. Liam groans, turning his face into the pillow. 

The room sounds deathly quiet, and Zayn swallows thickly to fight down the bile rising in his throat. 

“Goodnight, Liam.” He mutters, and turns away, closing the door softly behind him.

 

***

 

Liam isn’t any different the next morning, or the morning after that. The whole week, he’s the same – slightly clingier, slightly more affectionate. Nothing more and nothing less.

Their nights are filled with performances, just as strong as that very first one. The other boys are ecstatic, their energy radiating throughout every venue. Even the crew notice the change, less irritable when Louis is playing his pranks on them, more inclined to deviate from the setlist for a cover, or a prolonged solo. 

That first morning, though, Zayn wasn’t okay. The others had seemed to sense it, and their hackles had risen again. But after Liam had shoved a pack of cigarettes into Zayn’s hands and ordered him to take a smoke, things were better again. He’d still been uneasy after the events of the night prior, but he hadn’t felt so shaken.

“It’s quite common,” Doctor Palmer had told him over the phone when she’d rung to check up on him later that day before their second concert, “Every patient is different, but other aspects of your memory could also be affected. Do you feel the cravings associated with Nicotine?”

“Yeah,” Zayn had answered, confused and frowning whilst Niall had played some Fifa beside him, “I just didn’t think to smoke.”

“Keep an eye on it,” She’d suggested vaguely, “There might be other, smaller things you might forget to do. Best to have your friends help you with that. Have you been remembering anything, though?”

It’s something the others refuse to ask him, which he finds himself taken aback by. He’d expected them to be on his case daily about it, but they’re content to let him figure it out on his own. Zayn would be happy about it if he didn’t have so many questions.

“How’s Sophia?” he asks. They’re in Thailand, a few days off before they have to head to Hong Kong. The resort they’re staying at is lush, and Liam’s been found enjoying the hotel pool a fair bit. That means Zayn’s been found enjoying the pool _deck_ , ignoring the drip of water down Liam’s strong shoulders and the way his swimmers sit low on his hips. 

“Yeah, she’s good,” Liam replies absently, eyes closed as he dries off on one of the pool chairs. They’re alone; a perk of being famous, he guesses – private _everything_. “Haven’t spoken in a while, though they asked me to tweet at her the other day.”

So nothing’s changed, is what Zayn surmises. He thought, maybe… but if Liam’s only talking to Sophia sporadically, it means they’re still not romantic. And if management are asking him to reference her on social media, that definitely means they’ve still got their hands in it. Zayn breathes out a silent sigh of relief. That makes things both easier and harder to understand. 

When he speaks to Louis in Hong Kong, there’s a similar sense of enlightenment, but also further confusion.

“Haz and I… we’re not–” He cuts himself off, rubbing his jaw in agitation. It’s late, the Thursday night after their gig, and Zayn has a moment to think that if this were a few years ago, they’d all be absolutely smashed right about now. As it is, Harry’s off somewhere with Niall, Liam’s sleeping (reluctantly, too tired to latch onto Zayn like normal), and he and Louis are sharing a blunt on their hotel balcony, completely out of view of any nosey fans, or even worse – paparazzi. “Look, we don’t fucking talk about it.”

“You don’t talk about it.” Zayn repeats flatly, accepting the blunt offered to him and taking a hit. His head’s fine, now, no risk of making things worse. His memory… Zayn’s not sure about it, but he wants this so he’s doing it. Everything’s a little hazy, but he feels good. This is familiar, if anything. And isn’t he supposed to be doing familiar things?

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis grumbles, taking a swig of his beer. The bottle’s covered in condensation, and Zayn wants to run his hand all over it. His own beer’s finished, but he’s fine without another. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s complicated!” Zayn scoffs, mocking as he leans back in his chair, “Yeah, alright, Mark Zuckerberg.”

“Dickhead Zayn at least knew when to shut his mouth,” Louis complains, narrowing his eyes at him. Zayn holds up his hands in surrender, although he wants to ask why he used to, apparently, be such a wanker. The thought amuses him. “Look, it works for us, that’s all that matters.”

They’re silent then, Louis enjoying the rest of his beer. The night is balmy, even though it’s only the start of spring. Zayn’s not used to the heat, though, even still. His vest exposes the ink on his arms, and his joggers give his legs some much-needed air.

His hair falls over the right side of his face as he runs his right hand over the back of his left, feeling out the new tattoo. It’s peculiar, having one and not remembering the process of it, or the way it would have ached and itched, scabbed over as it healed. He finds he doesn’t like it so much, when he can’t remember the pain he went through to get it. 

“What’s up with Liam, by the way?” Zayn asks suddenly, surprising even himself.

“Liam?” echoes Louis, quirking an eyebrow sardonically. “What’s _not_ up with Liam, I say. That boy’s wound tighter than a spring.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, used to the way Louis seems to think pulling is the answer to everything. 

“Apart from the usual, nothing is up with Liam.” Louis continues at Zayn’s flat stare. “Why, do you think something is up?”

“Can you stop saying ‘up’?” Zayn groans, his head a little dusty with weed. His fingers are tingling, and he’s pulling at his bottom lip in thought, the way it twinges when he squeezes a particularly tender area leaving his face warm and his limbs heavy. Louis shrugs, finishing off his beer with a large swallow, licking his lips. Zayn’s staring, but he always stares when he’s high. “He’s– touchy feely.” The words feel clunky in Zayn’s mouth. Louis snorts, which makes the whole thing a lot worse.

“Liam has always been all over you, you’ve just never noticed.”

“I’ve noticed!” Zayn snaps, although he’s not sure why he’s defending himself. “Look, it’s been more than usual.” He licks his lips, feeling oddly daring, “What’s happened since July?”

Louis’s face does something strange. Zayn’s too high, too aroused to read it properly. Why the fuck did he smoke before this conversation?

“Nothing’s happened since July,” mutters Louis, and he looks frustrated, “Nothing that would mean Liam’s acting weird, like you seem to think.”

“He came onto me the other week.” Zayn blurts out. Fuck, what is _in_ this weed? 

Louis rears back, his whole body now turned toward Zayn.

“He was drunk; I was putting him to bed. He–” Zayn swallows slowly, shifting his hips at the memory, “He pulled my hand down, towards…”

“Shit, mate,” Louis barks out a laugh, his eyes glinting with mirth, “You really do need to get laid.” 

“Fuck off,” Zayn grumbles, “It wasn’t like that. The way he _looked_ at me.” He fights off a shiver, closing his eyes as he bites into that tender spot on his lip again. “Whatever, man, I’m not lying.”

“I never said you were lying,” Louis says, smiling widely.

Zayn snatches the blunt out of Louis’ lax hand, and takes what might be the last hit. They’ve let it burn too long, wasted too much. 

“Hey!” Louis protests, “Fuck you, Zayn. That was rude.”

Zayn shrugs, smirking. 

“It is what it is.” Louis’ face is hilarious, and Zayn’s laughing as he hops out of his chair, running away from his smaller friend, the weed making him giggly.

“Get back here, Malik!”

 

***

 

He’d forgotten about social media, until he’d gotten an e-mail about Perrie. 

_I really need to call her._

The e-mail was pretty standard, something all the boys probably would have received, dictating interviews and schedules. But there’s a note attached to the end of his, a very abrupt, _Tweet about Perrie._

Zayn stares at it for a bit – in his hotel room in Manila, two nights of gigs behind him – before logging onto Twitter.

He’s not a stranger to some of the crazier things fans tweet at him. He’s definitely not a stranger to some of the more derogatory things internet trolls tweet at him. He lurks, he’ll admit. It’s interesting, he finds. Sometimes it can make his night, to see a particularly sweet message. Other times, he’s on the phone to Perrie, cussing out some arse who thinks he shouldn’t be dating her because he’s not white. He’s _not_ dating her, but it still angers him, like it would anger anyone who was being insulted for the colour of their skin.

He’d had the vague thought, after he’d hurt himself, that he should check out his accounts, see what he’d written. But amongst the tour, a few interviews here and there where he mostly kept quiet, and everything going on with Liam, it’d been pushed to the back of his mind.

He peruses his account before he tweets anything, not really wanting to be online for all the notifications he’ll get. He enters in the dates in the search bar, and he starts from the beginning. 

His Palestine tweet is… he wonders how that ever got a green light. Although he supposes it probably didn’t, and he just tweeted it anyway. He doesn’t always have control of his account, but he’s largely left alone to it. Which can be both good and bad. 

He sees he’s been in the studio with Naughty Boy, conversing on Twitter a bit which is surprising. He feels like every bloody thing is surprising, but Zayn will admit he never thought he’d branch out and have studio time with anyone not connected to the band. It’s not that he never wanted to, but One Direction always felt a bit too good to be true, sometimes, and to see himself publicly broadcast branching out… he’s not sure how he feels. He thought, maybe, he and Liam would do something together, maybe. That _that_ might be the beginning of a new aspect to his life.

He sends out a vague “missing that special someone” which garners some interesting replies, some he glimpses before he quickly logs out. It’s not specific, but it implies it’s Perrie, and that’s good enough. He can’t… he tries not to specify anymore, although sometimes it’s unavoidable. It’s the part of him that hopes, one day, he might be able to say something different, something more genuine; so if any of his time with Perrie comes under scrutiny, he can say he tried not to lie. It’s hopeful, way too hopeful, but it makes the guilt lessen a bit; guilt over how his fans think one thing of him when the reality is so different.

He doesn’t really bother with Instagram, as he doesn’t tend to caption things and even if he does, they’re not cryptic like Harry. He wouldn’t have been able to post any possibly incriminating pictures, anyway, so it’s a moot point.

A lot of his other social media is managed by other people because Zayn doesn’t have the patience, so he simply googles his name, looking for news. 

He stumbles across an interview, about twenty minutes in. It’s hard to make sense of everything he’s reading – a lot of it is hearsay, a lot of it actually happened but Zayn can’t really reconcile how he currently feels with how he looks in those videos or pictures. There’s a dissonance, the kind that makes Zayn feel like he’s not in on the joke.

This interview, though, makes his chest ache. He’s held his breath, he realises, whilst he’s watched it. That’s why he’s breathing so heavily now.

He presses play again.

 _“I want to speak to Calvin Harris about remixes,”_ Liam says, and the Zayn on the screen is staring at him, smiling, lips curving into a fond expression that Zayn knows like the back of his own hand, because he’s seen enough videos, he knows what he looks like when he’s staring at Liam, when he’s thinking about how much–

He presses pause, taking a moment. 

2014 Zayn never really turns away from 2014 Liam fully. But what’s even crazier, is that when Louis fucks up the word mogul, Liam’s leaning so far into Zayn that Zayn knows he would have struggled. He’s laughing in the clip, but it cuts before Zayn can make much more sense of it. Liam’s seemingly relaxed, and their knees and the points of their shoulders are touching, but not much else.

Zayn’s confused by it all, because his face and his expression say one thing, but the way they’re oriented around each other is saying another. If Zayn didn’t know any better, he might say there’s something more going on, but there couldn’t possibly... Liam wouldn’t hide this from him... 

He just wants to _remember_. He feels it keenly now, like he hasn’t since he brained himself just over a month ago. If he could just _know_ , if he could figure out whether or not there’s even _something_ to know, he would feel a million times better.

It feels like prying, like he’s invading his own privacy, by analysing his own behaviour. He doesn’t know anything about what he was thinking, what he was feeling, whether or not things were okay with Perrie, with his family. There are so many questions running through his head, it’s hard to even think.

His hair grows longer, and 2014 Zayn lets it. He doesn’t look great, is the thing. He looks thin, thinner than usual. He’s not smiling much. So Zayn thinks no, he and Liam can’t _possibly_ – but then in the promo interviews, whilst he’s not saying much, he’ll be smiling at Liam, or laughing at him, almost exclusively.

He skips through some of the longer videos, like the Four Hangout. He hears himself say _Where Do Broken Hearts Go_ is his favourite from the album, and after that he guesses it fits no matter the scenario. If he’s with Liam, it’s because he let him down somehow – but if he’s not, it’s because he’s trying to get there. He still looks too skinny, though. He’s a bit better now, but he’ll admit the last month has helped. When he’s overworked, he gets that way, but Zayn feels better now than he ever has, really. Rejuvenated.

There’s just something amiss, and he realises pretty quickly that watching interviews where they’d been guided on what to say, and where they censored their own behaviour, isn’t going to provide him with the answers he needs. He’ll get a half-formed narrative that’s intended by their PR team, not the truth.

Still, when he doesn’t mention that _You & I_ is his favourite One Direction song, he’s a bit taken aback. But he’s spent almost the whole interview silent, and the rest follows in the same vein. He knows he’s quiet, he’s often got too much going on in his head to voice his thoughts quickly enough, but this is a whole other level. 

When he sees he missed the album release performance due to sickness, things still aren’t sitting right. When he sees he barely speaks on the Ellen show, this still aren’t sitting right.

He seems better at the AMAs, okay at the ARIAs. Graham Norton’s not too bad.

He’s just _so_ silent, is the thing. Even with the others.

He stops before he gets in too deep, analysing every movement and every twitch. Seeing himself try to get Liam’s attention throughout Ellen was bad enough.

Tumblr’s his last resort, as it always is. It’s probably the most perceptive form of social media around, but it’s also the most intense. Zayn’s seen some disturbing things on there, and he’s also seen some things he _should_ find disturbing, like stories about him and Liam, but instead he’s just sad about it. 

 _doesn’t zayn look so much healthier these days?_ A user comments in a text post under his tag, continuing with _there was a time where i thought he might get hospitalized. he_ was _sick in orlando..._

He clicks on the blog, scrolling through some posts. He goes to their archive, too many recent reblogs for him to make sense of anything from before he lost those six months. He sees some commentary from the Japan shows, about the pictures and videos fans posted in abundance. 

 _WHAT just happened???_ is one post, tagged with his name, dated on the night of the first concert. Zayn’s used to the vagueness, but he hovers over other posts, looking for tags that might give anything away. There’s a particular photo – a fan must’ve taken it when Zayn was sandwiched between Louis and Niall. He’s laughing a bit, pushing at one of Louis’ hands. 

_#zayn looks so happy omg #what happened in australia #he missed perth and then suddenly he was sunshine and rainbows #what’s in the water there #I NEED TO KNOW!!!_

There’s another post, simply titled _#whathappenedinperth_ , that has over twenty thousand notes.

He’s staring at his laptop in shock.

Apparently there’s a huge difference between then and now, the Zayn of before and the Zayn who can’t remember those six months, the Zayn _he_ is.

He goes back to his tag, scrolling furiously now. He sees a post from a user titled perthzayn, which is just... so weird.

 _ok here’s what we know_ , it reads. _zayn has been quiet all promo. he was alright during the wwa tour, pretty excitable as far as zayn goes for the most part. then they had that short break, and he came back looking tired and a little thinner. not unusual, considering modest runs those boys ragged. but he was noticeably silent, not even liam was helping his mood much. he’s sick in orlando for the album release, which is suspicious given everything. then those drug rumours came about, but he seemed visibly hurt by those so i’m not sure that was it. he’s looking slightly better by christmas, though still not enthused by much. in january he tweets about being in the studio with naughty boy (gross) twice, then otra starts up in australia, and he’s not 100% there at the gigs, fans will testify, but then BAM perth hits, it’s announced he’s had an accident and won’t play the gig. he turns up in osaka with an arm in a cast and a SMILE ON HIS FACE!!! he rips open harry’s shirt during wmyb..... like !!!! fuck!!! what happened in perth!! I WANT ANSWERS!!!!!_

 _zayn needs to explain himself,_ another more recent post on the same blog reads, _that shady fucker was so unhappy and then turned up all giddy and running around stage like a five year old in japan. then the only tweet we get is about perrie??? nope can’t do it_  

Huh.

 _i’m so happy for zayn,_ he reads, back in the tag now, _whatever happened, i’m just so happy for him. the boys all look so relieved, too. harry pretended to hate the wmyb prank, but you could see he secretly loved it. and niall!!!! that boy is an open book, and now he’s cackling again._

_#ZIAMISREAL oh my god alright here’s my theory_

He’s not sure he should click the read more, but Zayn’s never been particularly wise, so he’s on the blog before he can really think about it, eyes scanning the masses of text and some of the picture evidence. He glimpses something interesting:

 _-liam looked SO worried wow can you not see that?!_  

A picture of Liam at one of the Sydney gigs crops up, frowning at Zayn during _You & I_.

_things were definitely tense. during adelaide, though, things got sweet again. little things was almost too much for me to witness, the way zayn seemed to be staring at liam. liam wasn’t much better. classic case of looking away when the other turns their head scenario!_

_they had a few days off, we got a few pics of them fucking around in perth, and then Perth (capitalized because it’s an event) happened and ziam were BACK! BETTER THAN EVER! ALL OVER EACH OTHER! zayn was good with all the boys, but he and liam were TIGHT AF!!!!_

_i think they were on the verge of breaking up, that’s why they’d been struggling all those months – zayn especially – and then they reconciled during Perth. i don’t know how or why but i’m so pleased. my otp lives once more! here’s hoping we get more honeymoon pics_  

Zayn’s heart is beating way too fast for some measly fan theories, but in a way they’re close to the mark. Maybe not one hundred percent, considering he and Liam aren’t together. But they’ve got Zayn’s feelings right, the way he looked more relaxed.

A knock sounds at his door.

“Zayn!”

He exits out of the site, and closes his laptop. There’s one burning question on the tip of his tongue, the kind of thing that could really catapult him right back to where he was before the accident. Zayn’s willing, though. He’s willing to risk it if it means preventing that descent. Because he’d rather fall there than gradually decline. The slow decay of his health and wellbeing through those interviews was painful to watch, even for him. He doesn’t want that again, and the only way he can think to do it, is to confront Liam. 

He inhales sharply, the reality of it staggering in its intensity.

“Zayn, I’m coming in. You better be decent, or so help me–”

He shouldn’t start with Liam, though. Louis was a dead end, but– 

“Zayn, what the fuck?” Niall comments lightly, peering at him strangely. Zayn realises he must look extremely weird, staring into space with what’s probably a horrified look on his face. “I thought you were wanking in here or summat.” 

Zayn exhales shakily, but quickly shakes his head in faux exasperation.

“No,” he croaks, hastily clearing his throat, “Nah, mate. Just chillin’.”

Niall eyes him suspiciously, but quickly shrugs it off, not bothering to investigate further. Zayn wonders whether he knows, or whether he’s much better at hiding it than Zayn ever gave him credit for.

“Alright, well stop chillin’ by yourself. Liam’s back from wherever and he wants company or summat. I dunno, he was whining. You said you wouldn’t go with him earlier.”

“Nialler,” Zayn starts, and his voice sounds strained even to his own ears. Niall looks to him, face clear and patient, even though he was grumbling about whiny bandmates seconds earlier. “You know I love Liam, right?”

Niall raises an eyebrow very slowly. 

“Sure, mate. We all do.” 

“No,” Zayn rushes to get out, pushing his laptop to the side and standing from his bed, “I mean, I _love_ Liam.” 

It takes barely a second for Niall to get it. He doesn’t look at Zayn like he’s hiding something, or like he’s guilty for not telling him. He simply shrugs lightly, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I know.”

Zayn can only really hear his own breathing, obnoxiously loud in the room; but there’s a roaring in his ears, like he’s in a car speeding down a highway and the window’s open. 

“Right,” Zayn says, a certain kind of determination settling into his bones, “Cool. Wanna play ping pong?”

 

***

 

Zayn feels like he all but kisses Liam the following week. He’s planning on confronting him, he really is, but he wants to take his time. He can’t remember what it was like, before, slowly falling in love with Liam.

Well, that’s not true – he can remember it very well. But he can’t remember how Liam looked when he realised, when he maybe fell in love with Zayn, too. 

So he’s affectionate, which, thanks to some well-timed tweets from Perrie, doesn’t really ping many people’s radars. At least, official people. He suspects the fans might be all over it, but Zayn doesn’t want to look – his last venture was enough for the moment. He’s happy to enjoy things as they are, not as how the fans perceive them to be. None of them know about the memory loss, and Zayn’s not ever planning on telling them, especially not when it might be the reason for Zayn and Liam patching things up, if his own theories are correct. He’s not sure they were together, still; he thinks it’s likely, is leaning towards it being fact. He thinks Liam’s been cautious this whole time because the two of them were fragile, back in Australia. Zayn doesn’t remember, though, so to him they’re stronger than ever. The reason for that previous fragility doesn’t matter – there’s no reason that could threaten the way Zayn’s currently feeling.

And, well... he’s a lot in love with Liam.

“Li,” he gets out through his laughter, almost wheezing as he doubles over on the couch, “Come on, it wasn’t that bad, Liam.”

“It was terrible!” Liam laments, following Zayn’s back and forth movement with his head, eyes alight with amusement, “I fell flat on my face, right in front of you.” 

The green room backstage isn’t huge, at least compared to the one in Johannesburg a few days ago. There’s an array of foods spread out, the gig in an hour or so. People are mulling about, getting everything ready. Zayn’s so relaxed he could probably fall asleep, head on Liam’s shoulder and Liam’s arm around him. Instead, he regains his breathing enough to bring a hand up, pushing lightly at Liam’s closest cheek.

“You’re making it sound worse than it actually was. I was there, remember? You were fine.” Zayn says through some chuckles, remembering the stricken look on Liam’s face when he realised his feet had given out from under him.

Liam shakes his head instead, his own hand coming up to cradle the back of Zayn’s, grazing over the shaved section and then settling into Zayn’s longer locks, fingers tangling there.

“How are you feeling?” Liam asks quietly, eyes searching Zayn’s face as his thumb caresses his scalp, “You had a smoke break today?”

Liam’s taken to reminding him. His memory hasn’t come back, and he still forgets to smoke; he thinks, maybe, he also forgot the newer parts of Liam, the parts only Zayn gets to see. The fondness in Liam’s eyes, though, makes him think he was forgiven long ago for that.

“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs, bringing his knees up onto the couch, his arms resting on them, “Had one after lunch.” 

“That’s good,” says Liam, his free hand coming up to settle on Zayn’s cast. It’s covered in permanent marker now, Zayn having used it as a canvas at any available opportunity. “You covered my name up.” He complains lightly, pouting, his hand hovering over the faint remnants of his name. Zayn smiles, biting his lip so it doesn’t turn into a full-on grin.

“You’ll get over it, Leeyum.” He consoles him, rolling his eyes. Liam’s staring at him, though, his eyes a little wide.

“What?” Zayn says, a little sharply, because the scrutiny he’s under is making him feel a little too vulnerable, too naked. And isn’t that a thought – he exhales shakily, banishing it for a later time. 

“You haven’t called me that in _ages._ ” Liam says, a little breathy. His left hand still rests in Zayn’s hair, though his thumb’s stopped moving.

“What?” Zayn laughs nervously, pulling his cast out from under Liam’s gentle grip, “Your name?”

Liam doesn’t say anything, just smiles, the crinkles by his eyes making a guest appearance.

“Are either of you going to get ready?” A voice sounds suddenly from the hallway, and Zayn turns to see Caroline glare at them, “Harry’s already making a mess of it. I thought I could at least count on you, Liam, to be on time.”

“Sorry!” Liam hurries to apologise, leaping up from the couch. Zayn feels strangely bereft. “Sorry, sorry. Let’s go, Zayn.” He pulls up on Zayn’s good arm, his fingers loosely circling Zayn’s skinny wrist as he tugs him along.

His skin’s still warm after Liam lets go, the both of them changing and getting their hair done for the show, some stage makeup lightly applied because they tend to sweat it off, Liam especially. Zayn’s trying not to think about it, the way in which Liam’s hand encased his skinny wrist so easily, his thumb having brushed over Zayn’s pulse point, which had sped up. Zayn feels over-sensitive, like he’s about to come out of his skin. It’s partly due to the gig, the undeniable adrenaline that runs through him at the sound of the waiting crowd – but Liam’s stares, getting longer and longer over the past few weeks, have left him unsettled and _alive_. He’s _vibrating_. He has the absent thought, as they get ready to take their starting positions and the lights go down, that it’s probably been a while since he last had sex.

 _With Liam_ resonates in his head, making him swallow thickly. As Liam’s hand closes over his right shoulder – large and warm, the callouses from holding a mic almost every night grazing against Zayn’s sensitive skin – his fingers slip under the fabric of Zayn’s vest, curling a little to give his back a slight scratch.

Zayn avoids the piercing gaze of Harry opposite him, and puts his hand in for their pre-show ritual.

 

***

 

It’s April, and they’re scheduled to play Dubai in two days when Harry approaches him. They’ve come back from sky-diving and Louis lingers, like he’s there for moral support, before Harry sends him a look that has him retreating from the room, a slight frown on his face. Zayn and Harry are sharing, which is unusual in and of itself, let alone the fact that twin rooms used to be a thing of the past. He almost wants to call Harry out, accuse him of organising it this way himself just for this moment, but even that seems a little too self-centered for Zayn.

“You didn’t go, then?” Zayn asks, noticing the lack of flush on Harry’s cheeks, the way his hair seems perfectly styled, like always. He’d been out and about himself a bit, explored the Palm Islands with Liam because who the hell makes a man-made island shaped like a palm tree? At least, that’s what Liam had said. Zayn just liked to admire the look of wonder visible on his face. He thinks he might visit one of the huge mosques, tomorrow. His sister would probably chew him out if he didn’t. He needs to ring her.

“It’s more Lou’s thing, I think,” Harry says mildly, taking off his shirt – a cream, patterned button-down, which is no surprise – and exposing the tattoos on his torso to the room. Zayn’s used to Harry’s penchant for nudity by now, so the extra skin is nothing to him. It’s amusing, though, how quickly Harry undresses once he’s in private. Zayn thinks to make a joke out of it, until Harry’s voice cuts across his thoughts. “You alright, though?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow, his basketball shorts shifting against the covers of his bed as he sits up, phone now forgotten by his side.

“Yeah, mate.” He scrambles to think of what else to say, a weird awkwardness settling over the room, the kind that hasn’t been present since before that first gig after the accident. He thinks of Tumblr, and the way he’d apparently transformed overnight.

Harry sits on his bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his jean-clad knees – ripped, though, so it’s more like skin on skin – as he stares intently at Zayn, unwavering. Zayn moves to sit cross-legged now, intrigued but also reluctant to name the squirming of his gut, the slight tremble in his hands.

There’s a moment of silence, and Zayn’s frowning down at the covers before Harry speaks again.

“The others– they didn’t want to say much,” he starts, folding his fingers together in thought, still gazing evenly at Zayn, his green eyes clear and thoughtful, “Bit difficult to explain six months of our lives.”

Zayn snorts, glancing up at Harry.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, moving to get off the bed and rummage through his bag. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, but with his back toward his bandmate he feels a little more secure, less on edge.

“Liam, especially.” Before Zayn can fully react – skin erupting in goosebumps, breath catching – Harry barges on, “He always forgets how you lurk, though. I’m sure you’ve managed to guess how things were, before.” 

Zayn abandons his search for nothing, and turns around. He’s still bent over, lower back twinging, his hair obscuring his vision.

There’s the unspoken truth; that Harry has acknowledged they weren’t at their best. He thinks, maybe, he might have said something to Harry before the accident. Maybe he mentioned something, about him and Liam. He always thought he might’ve spoken to Louis, but now that he’s fully realising he and Harry have their... _thing_ going on, it makes more sense that Louis would be a little closed off, less likely to talk feelings. 

Harry, though. Harry’s always been good at that.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” he apologises, straightening, awkwardly clutching a white t-shirt in his hands. He rips off his current black t-shirt – probably a bit stale, so it’s not abnormal to do so – and replaces it with the white, for lack of anything else to do. It gives him a moment, at least, to take a deeper breath and prepare himself for this mind field of a conversation. 

“I never needed an apology from you, Zayn,” Harry says, smiling warmly. His expression contradicts his words, but Zayn’s not going to call him out on it, “I understood, in a way.”

Zayn thinks of Harry and Louis. 

“Yeah, alright.” He agrees, chuckling with a small shake of his head. His phone pings from the bed, a short Nokia melody that makes Harry huff out a laugh. “Things are better now, though.” Zayn explains after a short pause, hoping Harry understands what he means. “No matter what. It’s all in the past. We’re good.”

“Does Liam know that?” Harry questions lightly, getting up from the bed himself and fiddling with some of his things, procuring his journal from his bag. Now that he’s no longer still, the conversation takes a more relaxed turn. Harry’s gaze can be very intimidating. “He’s been all over you recently. Like he’s scared you’re going to disappear.”

“I’m gonna chat to him tomorrow night,” Zayn decides on impulse, his heartbeat skyrocketing at the thought. He might not be totally ready, but Harry’s right. The fact that the others aren’t talking about it, are probably avoiding the topic if anything, speaks volumes. ‘No secrets’, used to be the band’s sayings. Zayn thinks that maybe it’s what nearly broke him and Liam before the accident. He’s planning to fix it. Maybe then he won’t feel so uneasy all the time, so unsure. He just wants to be able to touch Liam without thinking twice about it, kiss him in front of everyone without wondering whether they’re worried he’s going to remember everything and regret it. “After the show.”

Harry looks up, the cross tattoo contrasting with the massive ‘FUCK’ emblazoned on the front of his journal in biro. They share a conspiring smirk, and Harry gives Zayn a friendly shove as he passes him on the way to the door. He pauses just short of it, as if a thought suddenly strikes him, before he turns his head a little to ask:

“Should I stay with Lou tomorrow?”

Zayn blushes, scratching at the back of his neck to avoid Harry’s eyes.

“Uh, no. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Harry raises a curious eyebrow before giving a small shrug, leaving the room with a soft close of the door. 

Zayn lets out a long breath. 

When he picks up his phone from the duvet, he can’t help his small smile. 

_showers doneeeee! where r u ? i tld u 10 mins and its ben 20!!!! hurry up malik space jam isnt gonna watch itsellllffffff_

He pockets his mobile, biting his lip to stop the smile from growing. 

“Finally!” Liam exclaims once Zayn enters his room with the keycard Liam gave him as soon as they checked in. The hotel’s fancy, fancier than Zayn had expected, so the chandelier above Liam’s bed is to be expected, though it makes Zayn’s blood rush through his veins, sweat breaking out and almost making the change of shirt useless. It feels romantic. “Took you bloody long enough.”

“Sorry, Liam,” Zayn apologises sarcastically, “Had to do some proper adult shit before I watch Michael Jordon attempt to save outer space through the sheer power of ‘ball.”

Liam laughs and shoves Zayn a little, his face transforming into something Zayn’s not sure he can stare at for too long, it’s almost blinding. As quickly as he shoved him, he’s pulling Zayn back in, a firm hand on his hip, squeezing.

Zayn’s own grin falters, and he swallows down the desire to cover Liam’s hand and move it south. Liam still thinks that he doesn’t know about them, still thinks he can’t touch Zayn so brazenly. If Zayn knows Liam, though, he needs to move slowly. Things were pretty bad, it seems. They’ve got to be friends, first, which is what the last month or so has been about. Now, it’s all about making Liam comfortable with the idea of _them_ again.

“Who says you’re an adult?” taunts Liam, pulling Zayn to lie on his bed. It’s a king size with ample space, the kind of bed Zayn could have only dreamt of, years ago. Now, neither of them bat an eye as they position themselves, Liam’s laptop sitting between them. _Space Jam_ is fully buffered, and although Zayn has seen this movie more times than he can count, he still finds himself excited.

“I didn’t make any snacks,” Liam whispers into his ear as the film starts. Zayn’s face feels warm, too warm, “Considering lunch was amazing.”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers back, remembering the traditional foods that had left Liam moaning in delight. He feels acutely the way that Liam’s arm rests so casually upon his shoulder, the whole of Zayn’s right side on fire. His right hand sits awkwardly, his palm face up in the hope Liam bridges the gap. He sees him glance at it, but nothing more.

It’s not that late, considering. They’ve definitely had later nights, both out clubbing and on their quiet nights in. When Zayn’s body feels as electric as a live wire about two thirds of the way in, he turns to Liam to say _something_ , _anything_ , maybe to move his face closer– but Liam’s lashes are angled toward his cheeks, his breathing slow and steady as his head tilts a little back to rest against the headboard. His mouth is slightly parted, and his right arm rests on his stomach, his soft vest looking all-too inviting for Zayn’s head.

He can’t help himself, eyes roving over Liam’s face leisurely as Bugs Bunny screeches in the background.

He’s not sure he looks back at the laptop screen at all. But when the credit music starts, he turns his aching neck to it so he can gently close the computer. The room’s now only illuminated by a lone bedside light on Zayn’s side, making everything soft and fuzzy like early morning despite the fact it’s probably about ten o’clock.

Zayn wants nothing more than to scoot down, settle himself into the crook of Liam’s arm, and trace the hand that rests so lightly against his stomach. Liam’s so warm, in every way. His smile, the base of his neck, the way he lets Zayn push into him, bury himself there. Even before the accident, back in July (which is beginning to feel more normal to think of in that way; the fact they’re in April doesn’t surprise him so much anymore), Zayn admired this about him. He was, in many ways, the most constant thing in Zayn’s life. Perrie had her own band, which left their friendship unpredictable at best. His family, loving and supportive, won’t ever understand how he lives.

It’s insane, how Liam can be the most comforting thing to Zayn as well as the scariest. He fell in love with him in a way he never expected. It was easy, which is what everyone says – but then they say it gets hard, harder than anything.

Maybe that’s how 2015 Zayn had felt; that loving Liam was harder than not loving him. Maybe that’s why they’d been so strained, so at risk of breaking. Zayn can’t really fathom it.

But _he’s_ 2015 Zayn now. Alright, so maybe he’s not pre-accident Zayn, but he’s not 2014 Zayn either. He’s a mix of the two, the very best parts of both.

Liam snuffles a little, shifting to his side so the hand on his stomach moves over, the tips of his fingers resting in Zayn’s open palm.

 _Tomorrow,_ Zayn thinks, curling his own fingers slightly, like the ghost of a caress. _We’ll be back tomorrow._

The thought transforms the next morning when he wakes in his own bed, having left Liam with a kiss to the cheek, into _Tonight. Back tonight._

By the time they’re huddled around each other before the gig, Zayn’s awe – at being in Dubai, at having visited one of the largest mosques in the world earlier that day; relishing in being him, in being accepted without judgement and knowing in his heart that things could not be better – has reached unnatural levels. He thinks maybe Louis’ slipped him something, just for fun. It’s a high he’s never experienced before – not through sex, or drugs, or even performing. He’s floating and yet he’s never felt more grounded. 

Niall claps him on the back as Zayn adjusts his in-ears only once, comfortable with them for the first time ever. He shoots Zayn a massive grin, and Zayn returns it with one of his own, giddy and disbelieving. _Dubai._

“This is bigger,” Zayn croaks out as they take their places, Liam right beside him this time, “This is bigger than MSG for me.”

“I know,” Liam replies softly, as the crowd screams wildly. The lights are out, the intro just begun, “I know, babe. Take it in.”

Zayn closes his eyes, breathing shakily.

When they emerge, the crowd yelling and shouting and screaming, the opening chords to _Clouds_ playing, Harry looks to him and raises his brow, expectant.

Zayn lifts his mic.

He almost can’t sing the opening verse, almost can’t hear himself with the way the audience are carrying on, deafening and probably the best thing Zayn’s ever heard. 

“ _DUBAI!_ ” Liam yells just before the chorus to incredible screams. Zayn’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move, looking out at the thousands who are there to see them. 

Liam wraps an arm around Zayn’s neck. Louis does the same, the three of them bouncing to the drums. Harry joins barely seconds after, and Niall walks over with his guitar, as close as he can be and still play.

Once Harry belts out the title of the song, they separate. Liam remains close, Zayn now pacing slowly along the main stage, just stopping every few seconds to look out at everything before them. 

Liam’s beside him before Zayn can compute it, arm now around his waist, anchoring him. Zayn turns his head to the left, his cast heavy between them, as Liam sings. 

“I know you said,” Liam’s looking at him, a small smile on his eyes, “that you don't like it complicated, but you were tired of all the changes,” Zayn can’t look away now, his mic limp in his hand, his eyes staring into Liam. “But love is always, always changing,” Liam’s hand moves, chucking Zayn’s chin, before he continues, “Woah!”

He’s grinning at Zayn, eye crinkles infectious as Zayn finds himself grinning back, almost giggling.

Zayn nearly misses the start of his own verse, but brings up his mic just in time, looking away from Liam half-way through, too overcome. 

The rest of the concert is similarly overwhelming. He finds himself breathing heavy after his solos, staring out at the crowd in wonder. One of the boys is always there, ready to slap him or shove him into action. It helps – it keeps him on task, for one, but also reminds him that it’s the five of them, together, that have accomplished this.

After the encore – where Liam grabbed the back of Zayn’s neck and squeezed, staring at him intently, letting him breathe it out backstage whilst Louis bounced around, trying to dack Niall – Zayn’s emotions get the better of him. 

So as Niall sings the first verse of _You & I_, Zayn’s fighting down the lump in his throat, waving at a few fans when Niall finishes and they’re all walking out to the mic stands. Liam’s next to him, like he has been all tour, and when he sings the last line of his verse, he’s looking straight at Zayn, no sign of the smile or the joking that’s been characteristic of the song over the years, to offset the serious nature of the lyrics. Zayn’s breath is caught, his eyes sting, and his tattooed arms are covered in goosebumps. His hair flops in front of his face when he looks down at his feet, trying to keep it together. 

As Harry concludes the first chorus, Zayn suddenly feels Liam’s arm snake around his waist – the crowd are going nuts, something Zayn doesn’t really want to think about for the first time that night. His stomach muscles clench in reaction, and he shakes out his left hand to get rid of its tremble, starting his own verse. His voice wavers in the beginning, but he centres himself by the end of the first lyric and hits the notes, his voice echoing in his own ears once he’s done. He can’t look at Liam, just stares out at the crowd; he thinks he can see a girl crying near the front, her friend’s arm around her. Liam’s arm stays put, his thumb brushing near the hemline of Zayn’s Queen t-shirt, hidden from view of the fans given the way it hangs off of Zayn, boxy and comfortable.

They only separate once they walk down the runway, singing the chorus together as a band, the five of them complementing each other in a way Zayn had nearly forgotten about, seamless and unhurried, confident in their ability as a group.

As Zayn closes the song with Harry, he can’t help but look at Liam, the lyrics clear as crystal to him despite the audience, despite the roaring of his ears.

_We can make it if we try, you and I..._

“You alright?” Liam asks, his mouth right up against Zayn’s ear while Niall thanks the crowd.

Zayn nods as Liam pulls back, the both of them holding eye contact before Zayn gives a shaky smile, bringing a hand up to cup Liam’s neck before he turns away, hand dragging down Liam’s jaw before dropping. He forces himself to read a few signs, acknowledge a few fans – he just needs to breathe, all of this a little too much.

 _Tonight,_ he thinks, smiling at a guy who seems to be enjoying himself, despite the fact it looks like his girlfriend dragged him along. _Tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight–_

The next few songs are a bit of a blur, but he manages to regain his composure. When they finally finish up, _Best Song Ever_ fading out into instrumental, he gets the nerve to actually speak.

“This has been,” Zayn begins to piercing screams, “the most amazing night. Thank you.” 

“Thank you, Dubai!” Harry drawls, the five of them walking down the runway toward the main stage.

Zayn’s shaking – he can’t stop it now – his heart pounding in his chest as they take their final bow. _Right now,_ he thinks, sweaty and nauseous. _Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now–_  

Louis is whooping when they reach backstage, jumping up onto Harry’s back, who grunts, although there’s a grin on his face.

“Ay ay ay, well done, boys!” He exclaims as Harry’s hands come up to cradle the forearms under his neck. Louis jumps off, though, dragging Niall into a headlock even though he’s in the middle of a conversation with Sandy, the both of them sweaty but looking energised.

“Come on,” Zayn murmurs, grabbing Liam’s hand and pulling him out of the room whilst the others are distracted, “Hotel.”

“Zayn,” Liam gives a bemused laugh, “Slow down! We can wait for the others. What’s the rush?”

“Just–” Zayn huffs, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he looks behind him to Liam. “Come on!” They’re weaving their way through the corridors now, managing to slip out to one of the cars fairly quickly in the confusion of security and venue personnel trying to corral out the fans.

Zayn’s right up against Liam in the car, the two of them silent as Zayn catches his breath, heart racing to a new beat when Liam pulls his hand away only to throw his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and bring him in close, his mouth brushing Zayn’s temple.

“ _Calm down._ ” He murmurs, breath hot against Zayn’s burning skin. Zayn’s right leg is bouncing up and down, his left arm – still in a cast – bumping against Liam’s torso as the car takes sharp turns.

By the time they reach the hotel – a short distance away, something Zayn is incredibly thankful for – he’s almost worse than before, his whole body fidgety and the skin at the back of his neck prickling in fear. It’s the good kind of fear, though – the kind of fear that makes you do brave things.

“Zayn,” Liam manages to get out through laughter, their hands clasped together despite the sweat and the heat as they stumble into Liam’s room. Zayn’s laughing, too, giddy – high on what’s about to happen, high on the fact he’ll be able to _remember_ kissing Liam this time. “What’s–”

But Zayn doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He turns around to face Liam and pulls him in, their bodies colliding hard. Zayn lets go of Liam’s hand, careful of his cast as he brings up both of his hands. His palms frame Liam’s face, and Zayn pushes forward into him, no spaces left between them. Their lips crash together as Zayn’s shirt bunches up, the hair around his navel brushing against the sliver of skin exposed by Liam’s own t-shirt. Liam’s hands cradle Zayn’s shoulders, light and soft. The kiss turns from hot and heavy to soft and sweet entirely too quickly, Liam’s lips brushing Zayn’s so lightly they’re almost simply breathing against each other’s mouths. Zayn’s eyes are still closed, his face warm and his fingers tingling; his right hand scratching at Liam’s scalp, having moved there during their embrace.

Zayn leans his forehead against Liam’s, breathing shallowly. Finally. _Finally._  

“I love you,” Zayn confesses softly, nearly a whisper. “ _Liam,_ ” 

He can’t complete his sentence, capturing Liam’s lips again in a brief kiss, his own feeling tender and bruised.

“Zayn,” Liam murmurs, and Zayn opens his eyes. Liam’s own are wide, and his face is odd. It... it shouldn’t look like that. “Zayn,” he murmurs again, and Zayn’s insides gradually freeze, icy cold with a slowly forming sense of dread at the way Liam seems to be _comforting_ him, of all things, “We– we’re friends.” He’s whispering now, his eyes soft, “That’s all.”

The gentleness of Liam’s hands on his shoulders does nothing to soften the blow.

_Friends._

Zayn thought the amnesia was the worst of it. But _this?_ This takes the cake. 

“What?” whispers Zayn, moving his head back. His hand slips from Liam’s hair, and his healing arm falls to his side. They’re still close, so close, and neither of them are stepping back. Zayn feels... he feels trapped, surrounded on all sides by this feeling of–

“I’m sorry,” Liam says quietly. His face has fallen from the elation it held not even a minute ago, twisted into the worst thing Zayn can imagine: pity. “I’m so sorry. You know I love you, just not–”

“You’re not _in_ love with me.” Zayn can’t process anything. He thinks Liam pushes him back a bit, maybe that his own arms are now hanging limply by his sides. He thinks his voice came out flat, emotionless. He can’t be certain. Nothing... nothing makes sense. His chest aches, his heart pumping blood in an uneven, staccato rhythm. 

“I’m so sorry.” Liam repeats, his voice breaking. He looks miserable. “Please, we can still be friends. It doesn’t have to change anything–”

But Zayn knows. He knows exactly what happened. Liam may not have rejected him last time – at least, not in the same way he is now, soft and considerate – but Liam probably said something, months ago; in those missing months Zayn used to crave he could recall, but now hates with a fiery passion. He probably let Zayn know, very subtly, that nothing could ever happen between them. He probably called them _brothers_ , or made noise about feeling lonely, wanting a _girlfriend_ –

 Suddenly and unquestionably, Zayn needs to leave.

 _You said you’d rather fall_ , a distant voice reminds him as he rips himself from Liam’s grip, ignoring his protests, _you just never thought about how you might land._

Liam’s stricken expression captures him for a mere second before Zayn pushes past him, scrambling at the door.

“Zayn!” Liam exclaims, but Zayn’s too quick, slamming the hotel room door with enough force it rattles in its frame before he’s running down the hallway, bypassing his own room.

He has enough sense, he’s surprised to realise later, to leave out a back entrance of the hotel. Fans are, inevitably, waiting near the front. He snaps at someone, he’s not sure, to get him a driver.

“Where are we going?” They ask once Zayn climbs in barely a few minutes later, and he tries to ignore the way their eyes are flicking down to Zayn’s cheeks every few seconds. He’s crying. Zayn’s crying.

“Doesn’t matter,” he spits, “Just go.”

And so they do.

 

***

 

“Zee,” Doniya says, trying to be heard above his panicked breathing, “ _Zayn._ Calm down.”

“Doniya,” Zayn croaks out. They’ve pulled to the side of the road somewhere; Zayn has no idea. It’s late, probably nearing midnight. His driver is pretending not to notice Zayn having a meltdown somewhere in remote Dubai. “ _Doniya._ ”

“Breathe, Zee. Just breathe.”

He tries. It’s hopeless for the first minute, but after his vision gets a bit spotty, he makes the conscious effort to do it, focusing on the drag of his inhales and the instability of his exhales, taking comfort in the fact that at least he’s not numb – the piercing ache in his chest hasn’t relented, and the way his fingertips sting from the push of his newly cut nails into his palm ground him, even if he just wants to close his eyes and maybe fall asleep for a week or two.

“That’s better, Zee. You’re doing well.” Doniya sounds way too calm for someone who just got interrupted eating dinner, only to hear her brother struggling to breathe on the other end of a call. He can hear her hush the rest of his family, moving into another room by the sounds of a door closing. A car passes by Zayn and his driver on the highway, too fast to discern who might be inside. They don’t stop, and Zayn ignores the traitorous pang of disappointment that spreads through his veins. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

The only thing he can hear is the slight breeze around him as he stands on the outskirts of Dubai, sand and dirt and dust tickling his nose.

“I–” He doesn’t know what to say. ‘I just told Liam I’m in love with him, and he doesn’t love me back’ seems too simple. ‘I thought Liam and I were together’ requires further explanation. ‘Liam kissed me _back_ ’ is true, but doesn’t mean anything. Nothing would fit.

“What did I tell you?” he asks, cheeks still wet with tears. He wipes his face on his shoulders absently, hoping to dry them.

“What do you mean, _bhai?_ ” Doniya responds. Her voice is careful, and through the shock of sadness Zayn feels the stirrings of suspicion.

“What did I tell you,” he croaks, “before the accident? What did we talk about?”

“Zayn...” Her tone is wary.

“ _No,_ Doniya,” He snaps, sniffing, his voice thick, “Things are royally fucked. I think I deserve to know.” He runs his right hand through his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration as he adjusts the phone against his left ear. “Nothing makes any fucking sense.”

“Things are different now, yeah?” She prods, and her voice sounds falsely light, “You don’t need to know what we spoke about–”

“ _Tell me_.” he seethes through gritted teeth.

“You were thinking of leaving!” She blurts out, and he hears a clap like she’s slapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

The driver coughs, the window down as she gazes out at the sparse landscape.

“What?” he whispers, heart tripping up in shock.

“You were thinking of leaving,” Doniya repeats, and he hears the anguish in her voice like it’s his own, “You told me it wasn’t worth it anymore. You just wanted to be normal, wanted to go to uni...” She trails off, uncertain.

“Uni?” Zayn echoes, stunned. The last time he felt like he wanted to go to uni was near the beginning, when everything was too much and the fans would scream and scream and scream, but then Liam would squeeze his neck, or whisper a joke in his ear, or they’d read comics together, and he’d be okay. It’s been a long time since Zayn thought of that kind of life.

“You didn’t say anything, but I got the impression you weren’t on good terms with any of them,” continues Doniya. Her voice drops a little, getting quiet, “Not even Liam. You got all quiet when I would mention him.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, thoughts racing through his head.

“Zee,” she begs, “Say something.”

“I thought–” His face crumples in grief, his eyes stinging once more. It’s easier to cry, he thinks, than it is to really, properly think about why. If he focuses on the way his eyes hurt, the way the breeze makes his wet cheeks feel cool, then he doesn’t have to think about the _why_ of it all.

“ _Bhai_ , you _have_ to talk to me. You’re coming home, right?” Doniya tries to confirm, frantic, “Your flight’s in a few days, right? I’ll pick you up from the airport, special. You and me, we’ll have a chat.”

“I’ve got to go,” he chokes out, the tears endless now. His shirt feels wet with sweat, and his hair is sticking to his face, “I’ve got to go.”

“No, _Zayn_ –”

He hangs up, blindly pocketing his phone. He stares out at the twinkling lights, barren landscape and a car behind him, and thinks that it’s a shame he never got to see Dubai properly.

It’s a shame he’ll likely never come back.

When he returns to the car – a minute later, an hour; he’s not sure – his face is merely clammy and his hands are no longer shaking. His heart’s at the bottom of his stomach, thumping weakly, working enough to keep him alive and not much else. Zayn stares at the driver, whose dark brown eyes flick away after a moment – she’s uncomfortable, but Zayn doesn’t bother to care.

“Take me to the hotel.”

He texts his assistant, Rosie. She’s likely to be up, considering they had a concert that night. To Zayn, that feels like days ago. 

 _Change my flight to tmrrow,_ it reads, _Earliest flight possible. Dont tell boys._

 _???_ Comes the reply a few minutes later, _Tomorrow as in today, or as in the 6th?_

Zayn looks at the time on his phone.

_Today. please_

Thirty minutes later, he gets a reply.

_Done. Sent flight details to your email. Didn’t think you’d be able to pack in time for the 02:10 so you’re on the 07:45. Get to airport at 5am please. Don’t embarrass me._

After he’s sat on his bed and stared at the floor for a bit, another text comes in.

_Remember your passport!!!!!!_

He flings it into his carry-on, like an after-thought. He doesn’t bother to sleep after his shower, simply dresses in some black joggers, a plain t-shirt, and a grey jumper and prints off his flight information. He’s stuffed mostly everything into his bags. Harry will bring back anything he forgets, and he doesn’t need to check out because he’s not the only one in the room.

In a bizarre twist of fate, he’s grateful Harry thought to share with Louis tonight. It means he doesn’t have to explain himself, or say goodbye. He can just vanish.

By the time everything’s done, it’s around four in the morning. He figures getting to the airport early is not going to be a problem, so he calls for a driver. It’s a different one from before, which both helps and doesn’t – he wants to chat, but Zayn gives one word answers until he gets the point and so the rest of the thirty-minute drive to the airport is silent.

He’s just about to turn his mobile off once he’s seated in the first class lounge, go ghost like he’s an expert at doing, when one lone text comes in.

_pleaseeee zayn its ok dotn worr i luv u so muhchhhhhhhh. its ok!!!!! c yu tmrow_

He stares at it for a moment, reading the words but not really seeing them.

He turns off his phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies. I thought this would have only one more chapter but things got too big so I had to split it up. Really hoping to get this done before the New Year.

London’s bleak, but it’s what Zayn was expecting.

When he turns up in Bradford in a rental car, Doniya’s the only one who seems to understand why he’s there so early. She’s the first to hug him, tight and unrelenting, the scent of her cinnamon shampoo encouraging a welcoming sort of relief inside him.

“I’m just tired.” he mumbles at their questions, missing the calculating look shared between his parents as he trudges up the stairs to his room, hood still up on his jumper.

He doesn’t normally stay overnight, but no one says anything when the sky gets dark a few hours later and he’s still lingering, his bag spread out on his bedroom floor and his eyes red-rimmed.

“Zee,” Doniya whispers, and Zayn jerks awake. He groans, lifting his head a little, looking around his room blearily. It’s dark out still – he must’ve fallen asleep somehow, but the glaring numbers of his digital clock tell him it’s nearly three, so he must only have been out for an hour at most.

“Don?” Zayn queries, his voice husky with sleep, “What are you doing?”

Her hand pushes his hair out of his face, rhythmic in its caress. It feels nice, and Zayn settles back onto his pillow in silence, the moon creating a dim, ethereal glow across his sister’s face.

“You okay?” she whispers. Zayn closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “It’s okay,” she continues, when his breath comes out in a wet sort of rattle, “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just lets the tears slide across his nose and onto his pillow, the faces of Boyz II Men and Usher staring down at him with vacant expressions from his posters the only things judging him. Pictures of his old Bradford friends litter his corkboard, and Zayn thinks it’s a funny sort of irony that he’s so unhappy, when back then he thought everything he now has – wealth, fame, attention – could give him everything he wanted.

_“Everything I wanted but nothing I’ll ever need,” Zayn reads off of Liam’s arm, the movement of the bus making him sleepy. “How’s that?”_

_“Y’know,” Liam explains, the late night glow of the television illuminating his young face, “We’re so lucky to have this life. But it won’t ever give us everything. Sometimes, it might even take those things away, the very things we need. I don’t know,” He adds quickly, covering up the new tattoo hastily, “Just something to think about.”_

Doniya lies down next to him, Zayn’s double bed big enough considering neither of them are large people. She clasps his good hand in hers, gentle and reassuring.

“That cast’s due to come off soon, innit?” She asks, but he knows she’s not expecting an answer, “We’ll go to the doctor’s tomorrow.”

He remains in a fugue kind of state until dawn, where the leak of the sun through his blinds snaps him awake from his non-sleep. His sister’s out cold, her dark eyelashes touching her cheeks. She’s in her pyjamas, which Zayn only just realises; he wasn’t thinking of much hours ago. His eyes feel tired and heavy, and yet he knows if he closes them that rest does not await him. It’s a bone-deep weariness, the kind of exhaustion he’d been flirting with in 2014, and had obviously succumbed to in the latter half of the year.

There’s a difference, though, to letting that exhaustion take you, and managing to keep it at bay. When Zayn woke up and it was 2015, he’d had the band to keep him afloat. If the last twenty-four hours have told him anything, it’s that the band was the only thing that let him breathe. With it gone Zayn’s adrift, drowning, dragged down by life and love and everything in between. He sees the boat above him; his fingers break the surface but his lungs fill with water, his veins freeze up, and he’s left choking. Suffocating.

Suddenly, the Zayn of before seems to make sense. When he gets up and pads softly to the bathroom in the light of dawn and sees himself in the mirror, he can see pre-accident Zayn Malik in his reflection. His hair is greasy and his eyes are a little too sunken, shaded with dark circles. He’s pale, and his beard looks wild, not carefully maintained; his collarbones stick out, a stark contrast to the softness he was building up again.

It’s amazing what a few words can do, carelessly thrown out like he hadn’t just given Liam the power to break him.

 _“Piyaara,”_ his mother greets him when he makes his way downstairs, turning from the kettle. She’s always been an early riser, and the surprise in her voice makes him remember that he’s not. “What are you doing up?”

“Jet lag.” Zayn explains, though by the frown on his mother’s face it’s not a good enough excuse. After all, it’s still before noon in Dubai.

There’s a slight pause once Zayn comes to lean on the kitchen island before his mother walks over and takes his face in her hands. She’s short, but he’s not tall, so her neck only cranes slightly.

“What’s wrong, _baita?_ ” He closes his eyes at the endearment, feeling that familiar wetness touch his lashes. _“Zain?”_

The way her intonation changes a little with the original spelling of his name makes his face fall, the tears sliding down easily now.

“Mum,” he gasps, “Everything’s ruined.”

She shushes him, pulling his head down to her neck, allowing him to wet the collar of her dressing gown with his tears.

 _“Jaan?”_ His dad’s voice asks quietly from the door. His mum pulls away in reflex, and Zayn turns to hide his face, wiping roughly at his eyes before he busies himself with pulling out some cereal from the pantry. He feels his dad’s hand gently grasp at his shoulder before he greets Zayn’s mum.

He brings up the two bowls of Coco Pops to his room to find Doniya still fast asleep.

“Get up,” He nudges her with a socked foot, impatient, “Or it’ll be just like a chocolate milkshake, only _not_ crunchy.”

Doniya groans, one eye peeking open.

“It’s too early for jokes.” She rubs at her eyes, shifting up the bed so she’s upright, “It’s too early for _anything._ ”

Zayn passes her a bowl, and sits down at his desk chair with his own, humming in agreement.

He’s halfway through his cereal before he speaks.

“Thought you mighta had uni.” He comments, moving around the soggy cereal with his spoon. He loves it, still, but his appetite isn’t the best.

“Deferred,” Doniya answers, short. Zayn frowns, and her expression softens. “Sorry. I forget that you don’t know.” The sentence hangs awkwardly in the room, everything spoken between them in the last day left unsaid. “Just got a bit bored of uni life, you know.”

Her tone surprises him, tired and a little sad.

“And Bradford’s any better?” Zayn prods, raising his eyebrows sceptically.

“No,” Doniya scowls, “But it’s a bit different. I’m actually working in London at the moment, but I came back up for...”

 _For you,_ Zayn finishes in his head, the vaguely uncomfortable look on Doniya’s face confirming his assumption.

“Anyway,” she brightens, “May as well ring the Doctor’s considering we’re up so early, yeah? Get that cast off?”

Zayn swallows down another mouthful before giving up.

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, placing his bowl on his desk. It’s tidy, tidier than it ever was when he was actually using it.

He gets dressed in simple things again, aiming for inconspicuous but also for comfort. He doesn’t necessarily feel like leaving the house, but if he can get his itchy cast off, then it’s not such a bad idea.

Doniya rang ahead, made sure they had the right equipment. He thinks she might have name-dropped, to get such an early appointment on a Monday morning, but Zayn finds he doesn’t mind so much right then – they rarely do it, but he thinks he deserves it just this once.

“It’s a bit early,” The doctor surmises, eyeing his cast and its art, her black hair curling around her face. “Another week wouldn’t hurt.”

“Please,” Zayn pleads, brushing an absent hand over the faded lines of Liam’s name, “Today would be good.”

She heaves a sigh, like she’s used to not getting her way.

“Your sister mentioned a head injury at the same time?” Doctor Sharma prods later as Zayn tentatively flexes his newly naked arm, “Said you’d had some memory loss?”

Zayn shoots Doniya a sharp look before nodding, clearing his throat a little in preparation to speak.

“Yeah,” he answers, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, “I lost six months of last year. I still forget to smoke, sometimes.” He doesn’t mention that he’s only a casual smoker now, the memory helping with that at least.

“I see,” Sharma hums, looking thoughtful, “And have you been doing the memory exercises your doctor almost definitely recommended?”

Zayn flushes, feeling guilty.

“Right,” Sharma concludes disapprovingly, “I’d get on those if you want to get back anything from those six months. I’m sure you know that the longer you go without recovery, the less likely it is you’ll recover at all.”

Zayn doesn’t tell her he doesn’t want to remember, not anymore, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a doctor would want to hear, let alone his sister.

“Feels weird, innit?” His sister asks, nudging his weaker arm gently as they walk back to the car.

“A bit,” he concedes, squinting up into the sun. It’s not warm, not like Dubai, but as far as Bradford goes it’s not too cold, either. “Not sure what to do with myself now.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He tries not to think about it, the next few days. He loves his family – the way they’re letting him sit on it, think about it in the quiet recesses of his mind. He spends some time with his dad, watching old football matches and promising to take a look at a few bands he’s newly discovered. His mum cooks for him, which he’s always thankful for, and she hovers around him before she goes to bed every night, letting him know she’s there to talk. Safaa jumps him when she comes home from school on Monday – she’d barely said a word the day prior, but it’s like the horror of education made her realise her famous brother coming to visit is exciting and should be celebrated. Waliyha makes fun of him for braining himself back in February, and pretends as if she’s told him things when she really hasn’t, lamenting over his lost memory and telling him that she’ll never forgive him for running over their dog and then forgetting he existed. Zayn’s not an idiot, and no matter what Waliyha says he knows they’ve never had a dog.

It’s surprisingly normal, a taste of the kind of life Zayn used to despise but now cherishes with everything in him. After... _after,_ it’s no surprise he was talking to Doniya about wanting to get out, to live this life. He sees the appeal, and he knows if he’d spent as many months as 2015 Zayn had, knowing Liam didn’t love him back, seeing how it was slowly destroying him... yeah, he sees how he might have made the decision, might have planned to leave the band.

It _hurts_ , is the thing. He didn’t expect it would. Which is both frustrating and stupid, because One Direction has been his life for _years_. Of course it’s going to hurt. What did he think – that if he ever left, if they ever stopped, he’d simply brush off his hands and say ‘thanks, this was fun’?

His brain pounds against his skull with everything he knows, the missing pieces falling into place only because it seems like he must be reliving them, not because he actually remembers. The memory exercises – which he had to call Doctor Palmer about, embarrassed – haven’t been helping. Palmer had told him it might take a few weeks to see any sort of change, maybe even months. Zayn’s not sure it’s worth it, is the thing.

Because if he remembers, that will mean he has reason to leave. Zayn knows, deep down, that loving Liam is what would have made him _stay_ , not leave. It’s worse _now_ , because Liam _knows_. But the thought that he would leave because loving Liam became too painful... _no._ No. Zayn’s heart shrivels at the idea, his whole body recoils at the thought.

Liam is everything. Which is kind of codependent and a little worrying considering the opposite isn’t true for Liam himself, but Liam helps Zayn like no one else does. He’s the person who, when Zayn’s having a tough day, can cheer him up, bring him out of his moods. He’s the kind of person who remembers to give Zayn a pack of cigarettes when he forgets, who lets Zayn cuddle him when he’s overcome with everything. He’s the kind of person who, although he never told Zayn about why things were bad, was trying so hard to fix it he didn’t even push Zayn away; he kissed him back, he told him they could still be friends, asked him not to go.

Even when Liam isn’t what he wants, Liam is _exactly_ what he wants; because Zayn’s never known that his desire to be alone with his thoughts wasn’t really a desire to be alone. He wants to be alone with other people; to sit in silence and let them comfort him like that. Liam always knew that, that’s why they get on so well.

So the fact that Liam sent one short text before Zayn cut him off says a lot.

When he turns his phone back on, it’s late on Thursday night. He had the foresight to put the mobile on silent, and he’s thankful when there’s a massive influx of texts and missed call notifications. He and Doniya might be night owls, but one o’clock in the morning is a bit too late for the rest of his family to be rudely awakened. Safaa and Waliyha have school tomorrow – or, really, later that day. He supposes it’s officially Friday, now.

His phone may be old, but at least his messages don’t come in separately like they did on his previous Nokia. He’s not sure he would have bothered to read the hundred-something texts if that were the case.

He starts with the easiest – Niall.

Monday, 9:53am  
_Bit rough mate_

Monday, 9:53am  
_Not sure that was entirely fair to payno_

Monday, 12:37pm  
_also what happened to the water park??_

Wednesday, 10:22pm  
_Alright mate we get it. Maybe next time you leave one of us crazy with owrry don’t vanish?_

Thursday, 12:01am  
_Miss ya man_

Harry’s next, and Zayn’s not entirely sure what to expect.

Monday, 3:17am  
_Liam didn’t say anything specific, but I think I know what happened. You should call me._

Monday, 6:11am  
_Liam’s really upset._

Monday, 6:15am  
_Definitely call me._

Monday, 3:46pm  
_This isn’t the right way to deal with this._

Tuesday, 8:44pm  
_I’m thinking back on our conversation about this, and I realise you interpreted it entirely differently than I did._

Thursday, 7:57am  
_You REALLY should call me. H x_

Zayn stares at this particular conversation for a while before moving on, selecting Louis’ contact – Tommo – on his message screen.

Monday, 2:54am  
_You piece of shit you ruined a perfectly good night for me !!_

Monday, 2:54am  
_Ok joking aside I will ream your arse later for allowing payno to walk in on me and harry_

Monday, 2:55am  
_But quite seriously, have you lost your mind? Since when is doing a runner the answer to your problems? Nice one, julia roberts!_

Monday, 2:55am  
_I now realise I’m probably not the best person to lecture you on running away from your problems_

Monday, 2:55am  
_But you really shouldn’t run away from your problems_

Monday, 2:56am  
_Namely because that means I have to deal with your shit when instead I could be fucking Haz. It’s 6am, I’m not enjoying this_

Tuesday, 6:39pm  
_Alright ruby Tuesday, please pick up your phone. Harold wants to talk to you._

Thursday, 4:11pm  
_I can’t believe this. Look at twitter ! Look at your phone ! Read your emails ! You absolute twat, this is such an overreaction !_

Thursday, 8:19pm  
_You are such an utter tit_

Zayn doesn’t think about it, ignoring the ‘Li’ in his phone and clicking on Rosie’s name instead.

Monday, 6:00am  
_You definitely owe me. I just faced Liam Payne’s puppy eyes and survived. Pay rise?_

Monday, 6:00am  
_Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything, as per your request. He seemed upset, though._

Monday, 1:09pm  
_Just a reminder – you’re on break, but you’ve got some promo stuff coming up at the end of the month before you start on choreography in May – to make up for everything you missed whilst you were ‘too injured’. I’m sending over a schedule via e-mail which! Please read!! And let me know when you have. Basically, you need to be ready to work again by April 27th._

Thursday, 4:41pm  
_Please do not tweet anything._

Zayn frowns at the last text, curious but also not really wanting to glimpse anything. It’s likely some article attempting to rile him up, incite a reaction. He’ll deal with it later.

Perrie’s name flashes with a new text, and he taps it on instinct.

Wednesday, 5:55pm  
_Liam just called me. I didn’t pick up, but... I’m thinking you should talk to him? Hope you’re enjoying yourself at home, I saw some pap photos..._

Wednesday, 6:03pm  
_Oh, and mgmt want us to do a walk soon. Let me know._

Thursday, 7:34pm  
_So... awkward... haha_

Friday, 1:19am  
_We should probably have a chat :)_

Everything else is white noise – some texts from Javaad, a few from Danny and Ant, a couple from his dad asking about groceries, one or two from Doniya which are going to get her a headlock later, and a singular text from Waliyha about their fake dog.

There’s a whopping 52 missed calls from Liam, twelve from Harry, one from Niall, and none from Louis. P.R. has attempted to call him three times that evening alone.

Zayn opens up his laptop, resigned to the fact he has to know what’s ahead of him before he’s followed by paps, or abused by fans, or asked about it in interviews.

He googles his name – which still gives him that strange feeling like he’s not entirely awake – and winces when he sees what comes up.

 _ E-MAILS LEAKED! ZAYN MALIK PERRIE EDWARDS ROMANCE FAKE?  
_ _1:43pm on Thursday April 9th, 2015_

He clicks on it, although the fact that it’s from _Sugarscape_ doesn’t fill him with any sort of confidence.

_Uh oh!_

_Trouble in (fake) paradise! Z, why you gotta play us like this?! Seems like his steamy romance with fiancée Perrie Edwards isn’t totally truthful. It hurts, I know. We’re big boys and girls here at Sugarscape, Mr Malik, there’s no need to pretend._

_A thread of e-mails dated from 2013 were leaked early this afternoon by an unknown source who probably no longer has a job – thanks, though, you’ll always be in our hearts, unknown source. I’m not going to lie to you, these e-mails are not for those of us with short attention spans. There’s a lot of P.R. jargon and name-dropping of Modest! Management employees and the jobs they’ve been assigned – who knew Niall Horan required his own handler! – but what stands out is a throwaway paragraph about our favourite mysterious boybander and his girlbander girlfriend. Exclusive below!_

Re Malik and Edwards: her contract finishes August 2015, so an August announcement is best. Clean two years – any shorter and they won’t be taken seriously, any longer and it undoes his image. Get Peters to prepare NDAs for any future intimate partners they may have, and also get her to buy the ring. Edwards will start wearing it at the TIU premiere for maximum promo and buzz. Please refer to the initial contract regarding joint appearances and monitored interview questions – Malik and Edwards are on good terms, so you shouldn’t expect much fuss from them. Malik is not known to need the NDAs, and he might make noise, but they should always be a precaution.

_The e-mail goes on to mention specific events the two attended together – long before they even took place – and how the two were expected to act, as well as the kind of questions their management would encourage interviewers to ask._

_What do you think, readers? All signs are pointing to this becoming one of the most famous media scandals of the decade! After all, P.R. relationships are known to happen, but rarely spoken of. It seems our Zayn might be embroiled in one, even if it seems he and Perrie are good friends!_

_Also, can I just repeat – Zayn apparently doesn’t need NDAs. Now, I’m no P.R. specialist, but my gut tells me they’re required for most sexual dalliances of mega pop stars like the boys of One Direction! (Yikes! How awkward!) So, this begs the question: has Zayn been abstinent since he got with Miss Edwards?_

_This is blowing our minds here at HQ! Zayn Malik, with his model good looks and falsetto, hasn’t been getting any? God, if we can’t have him, someone has to!_

_Maybe Zayn’s in lurveee? All those unrequited love tweets from years back – which we attributed to our dear Perrie after they broke the news of their relationship – now have a bigger meaning._

_Well, whatever the case may be, we here at Sugarscape are eager to hear more. Zayn and Perrie’s reps have been suspiciously silent... for now._

_Stay tuned through Twitter at @sugarscape_

Zayn’s stomach rolls.

It’s not long before he’s leant over the basin in the bathroom, breathing heavily as he spits out some excess saliva, lamenting the fact he’ll have to brush his teeth to get rid of the taste of bile.

Once he wipes his mouth and washes it out with water, he’s dialing Perrie.

“Hey, babe,” she says softly. She sounds wide awake, which isn’t surprising considering she sent him a text so recently. Still, he was expecting a drowsy greeting, or even something frustrated or upset. Instead, it seems like she’s trying to gauge his reaction, which is just– ridiculous. “You seen it?”

“Fuck, Pez,” he gasps, wiping down his face in exhaustion. The late hour is hitting him, not to mention the stress. His stomach churns ominously, but he ignores it. And to think he was looking better. Healthier. “This is so fucked.”

“It’s fine,” Perrie assures him, calm, “Don’t worry about it. It could be worse.”

“Oh really?” he snaps, pushing a shaking hand through his greasy hair, “Here I am, barely remember a thing, and now we’ve got _this_ shit to deal with.”

“Zayn–”

“Never mind the fact that the band’s _fucked_ , and I just found out I was ready to _leave it_ –” He cuts himself off, frustrated, gritting his teeth. The silence that greets him is damning, and Zayn’s heart feels like it stops for a millisecond.

“Pez,” he starts warily, sinking down onto his bed, “You– you didn’t know anything about that, did you?”

“You’ve got to understand,” she says quietly, and at the lack of protest his eyes close, his temples throbbing with a newly formed headache, “You were at your wit’s end, Zee. It.. it wasn’t good for you anymore.”

“Why do people keep saying that?” he mutters angrily, fighting back the moisture in his eyes like if he doesn’t name it, it won’t fall down his cheeks and become something else. Zayn doesn’t want to do that anymore. His face has felt permanently wet since Dubai, and he’s _done_.

“Because it’s true,” Perrie continues, her voice hard now. It’s rare she’s so adamant with him, normally more of a sounding board for his problems than someone who tells him how it is, “Zayn, you were ill. You were actually sick with it all. Exhaustion, they said. You weren’t eating, and none of the boys even noticed. It wasn’t a good time.” She pauses, huffs out a frustrated sigh, “I thought, with the way things have been recently, it probably wasn’t the best idea to say anything. It seemed to be going well!”

And isn’t that the kicker? Zayn’s done. He’s just... he’s done with people thinking they know what’s best for him. His sister should have told him from the start, Perrie should have sent him a quick text – _Just thought you should know, you were going to leave and go to uni and forget about One Direction forever! Let’s meet up for a coffee and catch up soon, yeah? xx_

Management should have fucking said something. Because if Zayn really was leaving, then he would have approached them about it. That’s not something he would’ve been able to do on a whim.

Which means they neglected to tell him, purposefully.

It’s ironic, that in trying to get him to stay, they’d done the very kind of thing that had made Zayn want to leave in the first place. And he knows this now, because a vague sense of knowing is coming back to him, bit by bit like the tortoise in the race against the hare – his memories aren’t bothered that they’re coming in slowly, that they’re half-formed and out of context. They’re content with knowing they’ll get there eventually, that at the end of the race that is Zayn’s recovery he’ll know exactly how he felt, and what it all means.

For now, though, Zayn just has the firm sense that he might have fought harder with management than he ever intended. And that, maybe, he hadn’t exactly confirmed the leaving schedule with them yet, but was still planning to do it.

He’s still angry, though. Angry at the fact that the very person he would have trusted the most to be honest with him said nothing. Liam.

“Forget about it, Perrie.” He grits out, the rage boiling up within him something fierce.

“Zayn–”

“No,” snaps Zayn, rising from his bed abruptly. He lowers his voice when he glimpses the clock, remembering his family are probably asleep. “You’ve done enough.”

He ends the call without his usual goodbyes, his limbs feeling hot and unsettled.

It’s only the fire in his veins that pushes him to click on the last contact, 52 missed calls and only three texts.

Monday, 7:34am  
_zayn im so sorry pls dont shut me out plssssss_

Wednesday, 4:33pm  
_ur my best mate! Please its okwe dont have to tlk_

It’s the third and final text that sends Zayn’s heart into overdrive, fast and fluttery in his ribcage like it’s desperate to burst right out of it.

Thursday, 12:29pm  
_ill leave u alone ifu want_

He clenches his jaw, thumb hovering over a possible reply before he shuts out of everything and locks his phone, throwing it angrily onto his pillow and running his hands through his hair in frustration.

A glint of metal catches his eye as he looks up from the cradle of his hands, his laptop seemingly gleaming in the moonlight.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, already making his way over to his desk. _Fuck. Am I actually doing this?_

It’s not that checking his Twitter would be strange in this situation, or that the texts to do so are necessarily encouraging him when he would otherwise stay away – it’s more that Zayn can’t believe there’s still a tiny glimmer of hope buried deep within him, making his skin tingle and buzz like a livewire.

Delusional, is what it is. Liam doesn’t love him like that any more than he did when Zayn admitted his feelings. He can’t have fallen in love with Zayn over a mere five days. It’s not possible, and Zayn’s traitorous heart needs to calm _right the fuck down_.

If there’s anything positive to be taken away from this whole famous thing, it’s that Zayn knows how to filter out the hate almost subconsciously now, and so it’s easy enough to glimpse Liam’s mention of him, his insides churning with a worrying mixture of nausea and giddiness.

 **@Real_Liam_Payne  
** _Some thoughts on the situation_

There’s a photo attached, though it seems to be a block of text – something that Liam’s never bothered with before; 160 characters usually being enough to express himself.

 _I’ve been seeing some really rude messages recently and I wanted to say that it’s just not on. Zayn has been my best friend since the beginning so I think I know him the best and I don’t appreciate the way he’s being treated. He is one of the kindest, most sensitive people I know and to see him called a liar and a fake is frustrating. Zayn wears his heart on his sleeve and I know he gives as much as he can to all of you. There are some things we have to do in this industry that maybe we didn’t imagine at first, and we do it all for you and the music. Zayn is as honest and genuine as me or any of the other boys so you can call me fake and a liar if that’s how you feel. But I know that I’m sticking by my best mate and giving him all the love right now so I hope you guys do the same.  
_ _Liam_

There’s something caught in Zayn’s chest – a thought, or an idea, or a feeling, or _something_... it sits heavy on his lungs, squeezing the breath out of him with every tick of a clock.

_Fucking–_

He can’t finish the thought, the idea, the feeling, the _something_.

It’s nearing two o’clock in the morning, but Zayn rings Harry anyway.

A few seconds barely pass before he picks up, a breathy ‘Hello’ on the other end making the vice around Zayn’s ribs ease a little, even if he chokes out his own greeting in a way that means there’s no doubt as to what he’s just witnessed.

“He loves you, Zayn.” Harry says, as if they’re in the middle of a conversation and not the beginning; as if Zayn can deal with the thought of Liam painstakingly typing out such a message to both appease the fans _and_ let Zayn know that nothing has changed.

_Nothing has changed._

“I know he does,” Zayn croaks out, the words on his computer screen blurring the longer he stares at them, the like count of the tweet rising like his own heart rate, “ _Fuck_ , I know.”

There’s silence on the other end, Harry’s breaths light and unbothered. Zayn’s own drag, rattle, as if wrenched from him.

“I’m sorry this happened,” starts Harry, and Zayn wants to echo the sentiment, give a chuckle and a ‘Me, too’ and forget everything that’s lead them all to this point, “I’m sorry that you had to find out like this.”

That pulls Zayn up short.

“Find out?” he echoes, empty, heart sinking like a stone in water, “Haz–”

“Despite what people might think, I’m not _actually_ slow, Zayn,” Harry snarks, and Zayn lets out a huff of what might be called laughter under different circumstances, “It was stupid to think you wouldn’t realise. We’d all hoped...”

The confirmation is what really sets Zayn off, and somehow his despair turns to anger in the time it takes Harry to exhale tiredly.

“Yeah, well,” he says, feeling unkind words form in his throat, “The four of you seem pretty good at that.”

There’s a beat, and then Harry responds in a way Zayn’s never heard before – Louis is probably rubbing off on him, and somehow the double entendre doesn’t amuse Zayn like it usually would.

“That’s not fucking fair,” Harry argues, voice like steel, “We’re all to blame with this.”

“Are we?” Zayn mocks, tone deceptively light, “Because from where I’m standing, none of you gave a fuck when things went south before.”

“And none of us were the ones recording with other artists, were we?” Harry snipes back, and the heat in Zayn’s veins freezes, “None of us were fucking off at every opportunity, making plans to _leave–!_ ” He cuts himself off, his breath surprisingly heavy with all the things unsaid. His tone turns soft, apologetic, after a few nervous moments, “I don’t want to fight with you, Zayn.”

Begrudgingly, Zayn agrees.

“Me neither,” He concedes, and it’s like the veil of unease has lifted from the conversation, like they can finally be candid with one another, “I’m tired, Harry.”

“I know,” he responds quietly, and Zayn shuts his eyes. He called Harry for a reason – mostly because he’s better at listening than Louis, and doesn’t try to lighten the mood as much as Niall. Liam was always his go-to, but he’s obviously out of the question right now. There’s something about Harry, though, that means he understands – he might not have experienced everything Zayn is currently feeling; he might not know what it’s like to be so in love with someone and be rejected like Zayn has. But there’s a capacity within him to empathise more than your average person – and unlike so many people, especially in Zayn’s life, Harry has a desire to know that you’re okay.

Liam is always around, always willing to lend an ear and a laugh. Liam is the kind of person that makes Zayn feel like nothing bad has ever or will ever happen. Liam is light – he is all-encompassing but when he’s gone it’s like a rip in fabric – gaping, chasmic, widening at every poke and prod.

Harry, though, is more of a steady presence – he’s like the moon. He waxes and wanes, comes and goes, but he never truly leaves. He glows best at night, when the absence of light is felt the most – but he remains throughout the day, and glimpsing him then is a kind of warmth. Like when you drink hot tea on a rainy day, and you’re rejuvenated from the inside out. Harry’s the moon, and the moon is a big rock. And like Zayn’s said before, Harry’s his rock.

So that’s why Zayn called him. Harry’s not going to hang up on him in bitterness, not like Louis would have. Harry’s not going to skirt around what’s happened, attempt to move past it in the blink of an eye, not like Niall would have.

Most importantly of all, though, Harry’s not going to make Zayn forget, not like Liam would have.

“Shit, this is fucked,” spits Zayn, but there’s no malice in his tone.

“That’s one way to put it,” Harry agrees mildly, and Zayn imagines he might be peeling a banana – the upside down way – nonchalant and normal, “Are you remembering anything?”

“Bits and pieces,” Zayn reluctantly admits, thinking of the way the idea of leaving felt so familiar, how there’s a vague sense that he was at his breaking point before he fell off that stage and forgot six months of everything. He thinks of dreams, dreams in which he sits in rooms with executives. Alone. Always alone. “Not sure I want any more, to be honest.”

There’s a pause, like Harry’s stopped eating his imaginary banana.

“You shouldn’t say that,” chides Harry softly, and Zayn feels a trickle of guilt down the back of his spine, “I know things have been shit, and I’m not going to say I wish you’d never hurt yourself because I’m done lying to you, Zayn,” Zayn’s breath hitches, offense and gratitude swirling in his brain like an experimental cocktail, “But you should want to remember.”

“Remembering is what got me here in the first fucking place, Haz.” Zayn grits out, and suddenly the actual reason why he rang Harry seems childish, like something a teenager might do. And Zayn’s not a teenager anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. It’s time to hang up that particular towel, muddy and wet.

“Liam loves you.” Harry repeats, and he sounds firm in it, like it’s a fact rather than a belief.

“But he’s not _in_ love with me, yeah?” Zayn retorts, sharp and unrelenting, the pain of it echoing in his voice, “So it sort of doesn’t matter, yeah? Because right now I’m feeling pretty shit about everything, and Liam loving me _like a friend_ is just making it all worse.”

There’s a careful silence, like Harry’s not sure he wants to reply.

“What are you saying, Zayn?” he asks, cautious.

“Nothing,” Zayn says quickly, and the lie flows easily off his tongue.

_That’s fucking worrying._

“I’m not bloody saying anything.”

The line is quiet again, and Zayn’s bursting to come out with it, to shout and scream and let at least one person know what’s going on inside his head.

 _I can’t do this if Liam’s just going to pity me,_ goes unsaid. _I can’t commit to this band if I have to check myself out every time he’s around. I can’t do this, not anymore. But it’s all I can do, because I can’t leave him. He’s what makes this okay, what makes me want it. I’m tired, I’m sorry, I’m angry, I’m_ done–

“H?” A sleepy voice says distantly, and Zayn would know that person anywhere.

“Lou,” Harry answers, voice quiet and fond, “Give me a minute–”

“It’s fine,” Zayn cuts in, resolve suddenly hard, “Forget it, Haz. I’ll see you later.”

“Zayn–”

“Zayn’s on the phone–?”

He doesn’t hear the rest, dial tone faint as his mobile now sits in his hands. He’s had another missed call from P.R., and his heart’s suddenly cold at the realisation that one of the few things he’s been hiding behind the past two years has come crashing down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

_Zayn wears his heart on his sleeve–_

Even when they’re ashes and dust, Liam still knows him better than anyone.

It’s well past two in the morning, but Zayn hits ‘call’ anyway.

“Finally,” Rosie breathes, and she sounds wide awake, “I’ve been trying to get onto you for–”

 

***

 

Seventeen days. It’s been seventeen days since the tweet and Liam still doesn’t seem to know what to say to Zayn.

Unfortunately, he seems to be the only one with that problem.

“It’d be remiss of me if I didn’t mention it,” says this one interviewer, a young guy who clearly doesn’t give a fuck if his terrible sense of humour has been anything to go by. Zayn’s thankful for Niall, who won’t stop cackling long enough for things to get tense and awkward. There was a relaxation in Zayn’s shoulders, but that’s gone now. “But Zayn, you recently had some mention in the press.”

And Zayn hates it, the way they phrase comments like questions. What’s he supposed to do, stay silent? Nod and agree with a smile on his face?

He’s just shy of rolling his eyes before Liam jumps in, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Yeah, and so has Caitlyn Jenner, and Justin Timberlake, and Chris Brown–”

“Right,” the interviewer interrupts, and something Zayn can’t identify flickers across Liam’s face, “But what’s interesting about the spotlight on Zayn is that it’s rather controversial, isn’t it?”

Zayn clenches his jaw, trying not to glare at the interviewer. He knows what’s coming, and yet his promise to Rosie to provide some kind of damage control for himself is seeming more useless by the second.

By his side, Niall shifts, an arm coming up to rest on Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn takes a deep breath and lets out a laugh.

“Maybe you should just ask the question, mate.”

Louis pinches his side, unseen by anyone else, for the remark. Zayn ignores him, eyes piercing the interviewer who suddenly looks a lot more interested in his job than he did mere minutes ago.

Zayn can’t believe this is the first stop on the short press tour, that he has to face dozens more interviews like this. He doesn’t even want to contemplate what fans might say, has been frankly lucky he didn’t encounter any when he was hiding out at Bradford over the break.

They’ve been coached, of course, on how to answer the questions. For once in their careers, it seemed denial and blacklisting would’ve made things more obvious, more damning. Hence, Rosie had told him to be as honest as he could.

_“The truth, and nothing but the truth.”_

Not the whole truth, though. The world isn’t ready for that, apparently.

“What do you have to say about the leak?” The interviewer asks, no qualms about diving straight in once Zayn gave him permission, so to speak, “You and Perrie Edwards aren’t actually together?”

Liam opens his mouth – to say what, Zayn doesn’t know – and that prompts him to blurt out the beginnings of an answer, the kind of thing he probably should have spoken to Perrie about first.

“No,” Zayn says, and Liam’s mouth shuts with an almost audible sound, “We’re not.” There’s a pause, and Zayn realises his usual one or two word answers aren’t going to cut it, not when the focus is on him, and negative at that. “We’re friends. Sometimes, you just let people believe what they want. It’s easier.”

Zayn swallows, ignoring the heat of Liam’s gaze on his left cheek, trying to stop himself from sweating nervously.

“But you were engaged.” The interviewer prompts, and Zayn realises he’s floundering.

 _Bit hard to tell the truth when I’m not allowed to tell the_ whole _truth,_ he thinks.

“So maybe Zayn went a little too far with the joke,” Louis says, and Zayn sees Harry give an almost nonexistent flinch – and yeah, they’re going to get absolutely panned for this, “It’s about time the press were laughed at a bit, don’t you think?”

It’s like Louis forgot who they were talking to.

“This guy _is_ the press, Louis.” Niall cackles, and some of the tension deflates at the slight quirk of the interviewer’s lips, at how he’s unable to resist Niall’s charm.

“Is he _really_ , Niall?” Louis asks, sarcasm dripping from every pore of him as he raises an eyebrow. Harry’s nose scrunches, and Zayn wants to roll his eyes at how obvious they are. “I had no bloody idea. Mate,” He turns to the interviewer, tone playfully shocked, “Who are you with?”

The unease itching underneath Zayn’s skin recedes, but Liam’s silence is damning. Liam’s never silent. Liam’s the one who deals with the crisis, not the one who sits by and lets Louis put his foot in his mouth.

Zayn has the sudden thought that the fans are going to see straight through it, through all of the lies and half-truths. And Zayn may not have ever wanted to be famous, might have just wanted to sing and sound good and make music... but he’s never forgotten that if it weren’t for the fans who buy their music, and give them free promotion, and come to their gigs... well, Zayn’d be at uni right now, instead of sitting in front of a million cameras and hoping he doesn’t fuck up his life.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Zayn redirects, ignoring Louis’ sharp look – he’d obviously expected Zayn to take the out he’d given him, but Zayn realises that if he spends the next week or two ignoring the actual problem, he’s going to keep on getting asked about it. It seems better, as much as he hates it, to clear the air now and be vague later. “Perrie and I–” It’s not like he’s the only guilty party here, and Zayn hasn’t forgotten the fact she lied to him, “we’re not together, we never have been.”

“Zayn,” Liam says, and for the first time in seventeen days, Zayn looks at him. His eyes, brown and wide, are begging him to stop. He’s got dark circles underneath the make up, and though he’s impeccably styled, Zayn reads exhaustion in his posture, and frustration in the redness of his over-bitten lips. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Zayn ignores him.

“People don’t talk about it, but sometimes we’re asked to do things that we wouldn’t usually do. Dating Perrie was one of mine.”

“So there are other things you’ve had to do,” The guy starts, and Zayn swallows heavily once he realises what he’s just implied, “All of you – that you wouldn’t usually?”

 _Fuck,_ Zayn thinks, seeing the quick glance Harry sends Louis’ way, the uncomfortable squeeze of Niall’s hand on his shoulder, _Shit, I’ve–_

“Maybe give it a rest, yeah?” Harry suggests, tone soft and persuading, “You’ve got your answer.”

When the interview is over, Zayn doesn’t bother shaking the guy’s hand. He just gets up off the small fucking couch everyone seems desperate to squash them onto and leaves the room.

“Zayn–” Liam tries to grab his elbow, having followed him out.

“Fuck off, Liam.” Zayn mutters, pushing past him to the green room, the array of foods he’d usually be devouring by now making his stomach turn.

It’s a shame Liam knows him so well, because then maybe Zayn would be left alone.

“Zayn,” Liam persists as he follows him once more, and his expression is determined, brows furrowed and eyes hard, “Let me help.”

Zayn doesn’t respond, his fists clenching instead in the silence.

“Well,” Niall announces, striding into the room with raised eyebrows and an overwhelmed look on his face, “That was shite.”

The following interview is only marginally better – the same question is posed, but at least this time Zayn just commits to one true fact, and doesn’t stray from it.

“Perrie and I are friends,” he repeats the next day, after being asked whether he slept with other people. The audacity of the public to think it’s any of their business still boggles Zayn. “Good friends.”

Liam looks suitably chastened, and his attempts to help aren’t going by unseen, they’re just really, extremely painful.

“We wouldn’t lie about something important,” Liam explains, and Zayn holds back from snapping at him, something along the lines of ‘This is my life, of course it’s important’, or ‘I’ve lied about you this whole time, are _you_ not important?’. Harry squeezes his knee, and the sharp pain in his joint jolts Zayn out of that dark spiral of thought. “There’s no B.S. about the actual band.”

_Does he even know?_

One look at Harry’s face tells Zayn he does, he’s just lying. Lying for Zayn, lying for all of them.

“This is such a fucking mess,” Zayn says through tears that night, Doniya quiet on the other end of the phone, “I’m so fucking tired, Don. I’m so–”

Zayn hates crying. He hates it. But he can’t seem to fucking stop. Every look Liam sends his way, unsure and unhappy, makes his throat clog up. Every word out of Liam’s mouth about him, but not _to_ him, makes his sinuses sting.

“Zee,” Doniya starts, and somehow Zayn knows what’s coming, knows that he might do it, he might go for it, “Maybe you should leave.”

“I can’t,” he says immediately, pushing away the feeling that he’s had this conversation before, “It’s not fair, not to them.”

“ _Fuck them_ ,” Doniya replies vehemently, and Zayn quiets in shock, “Okay? You’re my _bhai_ , I don’t give a fuck about anybody else.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the gel from earlier in the day feeling stiff and grimy on his fingers. His undercut needs a trim, and the vague reminder lends him some clarity in the moment.

“It’s Liam,” Zayn counters miserably, continuing on a different track after a moment, “None of this is going to stop if I leave, not now. Maybe it would have before,” Before the accident, before Zayn went and admitted everything, before Zayn and Perrie became a joke amongst their colleagues, “But not now.”

“I love you, _Zain_ ,” his sister tells him, and Zayn mumbles back a similar reply before she continues, “I just want you to be happy.”

It’s after the third day of it all that Zayn takes that to heart.

“Liam,” he addresses quietly after another interview of lies and truths and everything on the spectrum of lies and truths. He squashes down the urge to pull on Liam’s sleeve. Liam gives him all of his attention, anyway; his face is earnest, his body primed for a hug, it looks like. Zayn stops the idea before it forms. Physical affection is gone, now. It has to be. “You have to stop.”

Niall quietly leaves the room, and Zayn feels the lack of buffer close in on him, the air around him feeling hot and suffocating, warm and thick.

“Stop?” Liam asks, voice tight, “Stop what?”

And this is what Zayn had wanted to avoid – when the pity turns to frustration, when the frustration turns to dislike. Zayn always thought he’d be on the other side of the world when it happened, but instead he’s standing right in front of the person he loves, and their eyes are flashing with it.

“Stop trying to help. It’s not helping, you’re not helping.” He knows his voice comes out hard and unforgiving, but he can’t seem to alter it, can’t quite keep the anger out of his voice. Because he _is_ angry, angry that this is where they are now.

Liam looks at him helplessly, searching his face for something Zayn doesn’t want to guess at. He doesn’t know whether he finds it, because Zayn just turns around and walks out. Not of the band, not yet. But maybe of the situation.

 _Blacklist it,_ He taps out to Rosie, caving in, _I’m finished._

When Zayn lies in bed that night – though it’s more like early morning, the late hour promising daylight sooner rather than later – he has the idle thought that maybe this was truly the beginning, before. Maybe this is history repeating itself.

What is it they say, again? _History repeats itself because nobody listens._ Well, Zayn is done trying to get people to listen. He’s finished.

Instead – lying cold and alone in bed in his London flat – Zayn is silent.

He doesn’t say anything in interviews after that.

 

***

 

Zayn first experiences the reactions of their fans a week into rehearsals. It’s Friday, and they’ve just finished up the first week of blocking and choreography and vocal arrangements. Zayn’s tired like he’s never felt before, any semblance of happiness zapped from him every time he sees Liam. The other boys are trying, he knows – Niall, especially – but their jokes feel lacklustre, their attempts at distraction half-hearted and dusty with age. It’s not that they’ve changed much, or that the situation has altered to the point where Zayn can’t deal with it anymore. In fact, it’s the exact opposite – it’s the same routine, the same people, the over and over and over again of it all that’s left Zayn with a yearning for something else, something _more_.

Liam’s light’s not enough to fill the blank, empty spaces that have ripped open after Zayn’s confession, and so it’s only natural that he’d try to find a substitution elsewhere. 2015 Zayn found it in collaborations with Naughty Boy, the promise of going solo and being himself completely and utterly. Right now, this 2015 Zayn just wants everything to stand still for a moment, for him to be able to catch his breath.

 _Home_ sounds tempting; the exhaustion sinks into his heart and makes every beat a struggle.

“Zayn!” They’re calling out as the five of them leave the venue. There are bags under all of their eyes filled to the brim, and no words spoken between them. As silent as they’ve ever been. “Zayn! Over here!”

It’s instinct to look, more than anything. A weak voice cries out within him, something telling him to curse at them and storm off. But even that has little energy, and his curiosity wins out.

“Zayn, we love you so much,” One of the girls says as he approaches, and the group around her quiet as if she’s the spokesperson for all of them, like some kind of total teenage girl representation. Zayn gives a quirk of his lips, taking the outstretched sharpie from in front of him and signing over a face that’s eighteen years old and naïve as anything. He keeps a hold of the picture for a few more seconds than is probably deemed necessary, ignoring the gaze of the girl in front of him and moving on, closer to the girl who’s decided to speak for everyone. “Are you okay after your accident?”

Zayn looks up at that, another picture signed.

“I’m alright, thanks.” He says quietly, giving a smile to a girl who looks shell-shocked and maybe close to tears, brushing his hand against hers as he gives her back her CD; a way for him to console her without the ten or so people in front of him each demanding one on one time.

“You seem happier!” A girl towards the back blurts out, and he sees the dark looks a few of them send her way.

If he were feeling a bit more generous, or maybe just more at ease with the impending end of his time in One Direction, he might’ve laughed, said he was, moved on and signed more things, taken a few more selfies. As it is, he just looks at the girl blankly as her face falls a little.

“Do I?” He pushes whatever he just signed back into another girl’s hands, gives a tight smile, and leaves.

“Probably best not to talk to them about the accident.” Liam says once they’re all in the car. Zayn lifts his head from the cradle of his hands, the soothing rhythm of the engine grating on his nerves rather than calming him down.

He doesn’t say anything then, either, but Liam’s eyes close off in the silence and the muted radio is all that accompanies them the rest of the ride, each of them dropped off at their residences one by one until it’s just Zayn alone with their driver, something like déjà vu nudging at his brain if he considers exchanging the London city lights for cool desert air and expansive landscape.

He greets Rhino enthusiastically when he gets home, having got him back from his sister’s flat a few days prior. He’s in the country for the next month, and Rhino’s about the only one who hasn’t lied straight to his face since he lost his memory.

“How’s my boy?” He teases, and Rhino’s tail wags dutifully, his mouth wide and happy. Zayn gives him a rough pat on the head before making his way to the kitchen and putting the kettle on.

He leans back against the counter, the cool granite seeping through his thin vest and into his bones, cooling his ire and making his thoughts have sudden clarity, like he didn’t just spend ten hours working through how to sing songs he doesn’t remember writing and avoiding Liam’s forlorn face.

“Fuck,” he utters, rubbing his hands over his face roughly, scratching irritably at the scruff on his face. The kettle dings, but Zayn stays still, his muscles worn and tired.

How is he going to face weeks more of this, and then the rest of the tour after? It’s been a week and Zayn is frayed at the edges, pulled from both directions. He’s been dodging Perrie’s calls, as well as his Mum’s. The former because he doesn’t want to hear about how she intends to fix their image, and the latter because he doesn’t want to lie to her but doesn’t know how he’d ever tell her the truth. His dad is silent, as he always is – but he knows Zayn will come to him eventually, which is almost worse. There’s a countdown, almost, for Zayn to speak to his dad. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, even if it normally ends with him feeling a whole lot lighter and more confident in his decisions.

The fans tonight were mild, he’d say. The kind of fans that seem to respect he is a person with feelings and don’t want to accost him and demand he take ten photos each. They were kind, and Zayn knows he was lucky to face them first and not the ones who pull and prod and criticise and accuse. They’re bound to happen, and he’s not sure what he’ll do when they cross paths, but for now he feels like he has footing there.

It doesn’t stop him from going on social media, though, which should really always be prefaced with ‘the first mistake’.

His tea is brewing in his hands, boiling hot and energising, as he sits down on his bed, swinging his legs up and over and pulling his laptop towards him.

 **@zaynmalik** ’s a liar. the whole band are liars lol love them tho

 **@LittleMix** perrie I still love you! **@zaynmalik** doesn’t define you!

Is this what I’ve been dreaming of? If _#zerrie_ were fake, I’m thinking... _#LarryIsReal_ ?? **@zaynmalik** I want answers

 **@zaynmalik** hope you’re okay z!

 **@Real_Liam_Payne** why does **@zaynmalik** look so sad?! he wwas so happy!

Uh oh, looks like **@Real_Liam_Payne** and **@zaynmalik** are fighting again! _#bringbackthehoneymoon_

 **@zaynmalik** I’m really sorry about today I just thought you looked happier I’m really sorry I love you please don’t hate me

It’s the last one that catches his attention, although the sentiment of the others isn’t lost on him. He clicks through to the account, sees the girl is a fan – but it’s mostly of him, more than anything else. Which is... unusual.

Zayn’s not so insecure to think no one likes him. He’s famous – people hate him and love him in equal measure. It’s not so common, however, for a fan to like pretty much only him. Normally it’s him _and_ Liam, or they like him _as well_ as the others. But to like mainly him, to tweet about mainly him?

Zayn clicks the follow button. So he might be a little vain.

It’s mere seconds later, but he sees the next tweet on his feed.

OH MY GOD! **@zaynmalik** FOLLOWED ME OH MY L:AJBWF:JABF

Rhino hops up on the bed, nearly causing Zayn to spill his tea. He recovers soon enough, switching the cup to his left hand so he can pat Rhino with his right, the dog’s heavy head pushing into Zayn’s waist.

He starts snoring almost immediately, and it’s the comfort of this normal behaviour that prompts Zayn to respond to the DM sent his way.

 **@fzzlsgzld** _zayn thank u so much for following me i love u so much you mean the world to me and i was so upset when i thought you got mad at me tonight i’m really sorry i just want the best for you and i love you sorry soryr_

 **@zaynmalik** _that’s ok. you good_

 **@fzzlsgzld** _OMG! i didn’t think you’d answer omg again really sory i hope rehearsals are good! im so excited for the tour!_

There’s not really anything else for him to say, so he exits out of it. He favourites another tweet – **@zaynmalik** is so sweet omg I love him more than I thought!!!! – because it’s nice and it makes him feel good and Allah knows he needs it right now.

 _Stop ignoring my calls, Zayn. x P,_ Perrie sends him via DM, which makes him roll his eyes. How fucking dramatic.

 **@zaynmalik** _what do you even have to say? it’s already done, I just want to forget about it._

 **@LittleMix** _No one else is going to forget about it so I think we should talk.x P_

 _I blacklisted it anyway,_ he replies without thinking, wincing when he remembers they’re not supposed to be talking about this kind of stuff on social media when they can be hacked. Well, it’s not as though there’s anything else scandalous to be discovered. His best kept secret is out there for the world to see – the fact that he’s in love with Liam doesn’t mean much apart from outing him, and at this point Zayn’s so strung out he feels like he’d have little in him left to care about that.

 **@LittleMix** _Can we skype please? x P_

Zayn exits out of Twitter and opens up Skype with reluctance.

When Perrie’s face comes into view she looks tired and pale, and she’s clearly in bed. He looks at the time – 12:07 – and sighs.

“Do you know how hard it is to reach you when I can’t in person?” Perrie snaps, and her face is severe, unforgiving – a contrast to the comfortable pyjamas she’s in and the dim, warm lighting of her bedroom.

“That’s the whole point,” Zayn replies dryly, setting his tea on his bedside and moving down the bed to lie on his side.

Perrie sighs, dropping her head down for a few moments before raising it again, suddenly looking weary.

“What do you want to get out of this?” She demands, pushing her blonde hair back over her shoulder and out of her face, her cleavage coming into view. Zayn averts his eyes, staring at the Little Mix framed poster behind her.

“I just want it to go away.”

“Not happening,” she says perfunctorily, “Next.”

Zayn clenches his jaw, feeling the first stirrings of actual annoyance. He doesn’t say anything, just glares at the poster.

“Zayn,” Perrie sighs, and her shoulders slump a little, the thin strap of her pyjama top sliding down her left arm, “I’m going to go ahead and say maybe you want some dignity left at the end of all this. That’s great, I do too. So I don’t want you to get miffed, but the only way we’re getting our dignity back is by telling the truth. I want to tell people why we entered our agreement.”

Zayn’s eyes snap to her at that.

“That _doesn’t_ mean outing you,” Perrie clarifies fiercely at his expression, “I just mean I think we should tell them about the pressures of the industry and the media, how it was easier to be in a relationship with a friend than it was to have constant speculation.”

“Don’t you think that’s what I’ve been doing?” Zayn grumbles, “Besides outing myself, they’re not going to buy anything.”

“I love you, babe, but you’re terrible at interviews,” Perrie says, and although Zayn knows she’s right, the sting stays, “Let me help us.”

She’s not wrong, he knows. Perrie can probably sell their friendship better than he ever can, no matter how genuine it is. And they’re friends, good friends, _best_ friends even – he knows this. Sometimes it’s hard to remember, though, when Liam’s around – when all Zayn can think of are his eye crinkles and his endearing chuckles. Zayn’s blinded by him at the sacrifice of everything else. It’s only now that he’s become accustomed to the light that he realises how much it was affecting all the other things in his life.

Because Zayn can lie to himself and say he was happy; he can lie to himself and say he loves being in One Direction, that he wants to stay, that he can’t imagine his life any other way. He can lie to himself – he _has_ done for the past five years – but if he lies to himself now, he still knows the truth. Ignorance was bliss, and Zayn’s no longer ignorant.

“Pez,” Zayn whispers, lifting his head off his hand and moving it from his temple to cover his face, scrubbing over it tiredly, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

There’s silence as they both breathe, as Rhino snores next to him, and Zayn remembers feeling like this before, and he remembers what Perrie said then; it’s like suddenly a wall has been destroyed right in front of his eyes and he can _see_.

“I think you know what you have to do, Zee.” Perrie says gently. Finally, her expression matches her outfit; sleepy and soft.

“Yeah,” Zayn acquiesces, and the déjà vu really hits him this time, “I know.”

 

***

 

He can last the rest of the tour. That’s the decision he’s come to. He can last it. They’ve got rehearsals until the end of May, and then they start up again in Wales beginning of June. Then he’ll be so distracted by the rigmarole of a world stadium tour as part of an internationally famous boy band that he’ll forget all about how the love of his life doesn’t return his feelings. It’s probably going to be hell, but Zayn wants to leave in a way that means he has his pride, his dignity. So much of it has been lost already that it’s his only requirement.

Tour finishes on Halloween. That’s five months. Five months of his life he’ll spend cherishing the best parts of it, and then he’ll move on. Whether that’s away from the spotlight and back to Bradford and maybe uni, or onto solo projects more his style, or maybe into a completely different industry... Zayn doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. The thought of leaving the band intact is what’s going to keep him alive.

When they return to rehearsals on Monday, Zayn’s spent the weekend working out the particulars. So to say he’s a lot more determined to be professional is an understatement, and the other boys definitely notice.

“Nice to see you care, Zayn.” Louis snarks half-way through, though there’s no heat in it. After all, they’re not fighting – at least, not yet. Zayn doesn’t have high hopes for when his plans are realised, but he hasn’t given up just yet.

Zayn rolls his eyes, ignoring Liam’s sharp look, and lets Niall swing an arm around his shoulders.

“Zayn’s alright, Louis, shove off,” Niall says, good-natured as always. Zayn feels his hackles lower, his heart rate slow. He’s calmer with Niall in the picture, and when the blond boy invites him for drinks after that day’s rehearsal, he agrees straight away.

“Stick with me, eh?” Niall murmurs as Louis ignores Harry, the latter having accidentally punched him too hard during a play fight and therefore serving his sentence, “We’ll have a laugh.”

If Zayn follows Niall’s advice because it makes Liam’s face a little pinched, then no one will know that but him. It’s just that he can’t seem to stop the anger and frustration about the band situation bleed into his interactions with Liam. It’s not that he blames Liam for not loving him the way he wants – he really doesn’t, and he doesn’t want Liam to force anything – it’s just that he figures Liam should’ve told him. Why was he lying the whole time about the way things used to be? That’s what Zayn can’t figure out.

Zayn’s taking a huge swig from his water bottle when Liam approaches him, the other three pushing at each other a few metres away, playful and unconcerned with unrequited love. For a split second, Zayn hates them just a little.

Liam’s forehead’s sweaty – it’s only May but weather is getting warmer and they’ve just spent the last seven or so hours dancing around and practising their vocal harmonies. Zayn doesn’t sweat much but even he’s feeling the dampness of his underarms and the sticky, uncomfortable feeling of his clothes on his body. Although Liam looks good pretty much all the time, the sweat on his forehead coupled with the strain in his shoulders makes Zayn think that if he were to describe Liam as looking less than his usual stellar, today just might fit.

“How’ve you been?” He asks, eyes searching Zayn’s face intently. Zayn tries to keep it blank, to not give anything away. What kind of question is that, anyway? _I’m great, thanks, Liam. Recently got rejected by you and life’s fantastic!_ He almost snorts, but holds himself back at the last minute.

“As good as.” He answers, vague in the hope that Liam takes it as a dismissal.

He doesn’t.

“Great!” He exclaims, drawing some glances from the other three. A sharp look at Harry spurs on a welcome distraction, and Zayn sighs quietly to himself. “That’s brilliant, Zaynie. Truly.”

The water bottle in Zayn’s hand is beginning to feel like a prop with the way he’s fiddling with it, flipping the cap on and off and staring at the logo imprinted on the side like he’s an actor and they’re his forgotten lines.

The silence stretches on, a bark of laughter from Louis making Liam jump a little. Zayn just wants him to say his piece and leave – drinks await Zayn, and his mind is throbbing with the little things he’s remembering.

The exercises have been helping, it seems. It’s not like he’s been having revelations left and right – in fact, not even close – but he’s not forgotten to take a smoke break recently, and he remembers late night conversations with Perrie over Skype, and a few nights out on tour with Louis, memorable in their fuzziness. There’s a glimpse or two of Liam in there, bright and blinding, but nothing that tells him why Liam has been lying to him. So he’s still angry, and upset.

“Just thought, maybe, you might want to– well, I’d love it if you would– uhm, it would be great, honestly–”

“ _Liam._ ” Zayn interrupts loudly, trying to keep him on track, frown on his face.

“Right,” Liam says, jerking a bit and flashing a self-deprecating smile, “Sorry; ramble when I’m nervous– which, like, you know, of course, you’re my best mate, we’ve known each other for years... just thought you might want to come over tonight?” He finally gets out, stumbling a little over his words in his haste, “We could watch a film, have a few... well, it’ll be a laugh.”

The proposition hangs awkwardly in the air, and Zayn holds back a wince.

 _Allah,_ he thinks with a heavy sigh, _This boy..._

Suddenly, the most convenient excuse comes to mind.

“Nialler and I are getting pints after.” The expected ‘D’you want to come?’ is absent, and the way Liam bites his lip with a frown leaves Zayn feeling guilty.

 _You shouldn’t feel bad,_ He tells himself, ignoring the racing of his heart, _he’s the one who_ lied _to you, who let you think–_

“Sure,” Liam says haltingly, swallowing down _something_ , most likely a confused question as to why that means he and Zayn can’t spend time together, “Maybe tomorrow, then.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bother looking up at Liam’s face to properly see how he’s feeling. It’s easier if he doesn’t let himself – Liam’s eyes are a black hole of forgiveness, and Zayn’s not quite ready to forgive him anytime soon. Not for lying. Not for lying about _them_.

The gulf between them stretches on, thin and terrible, as the days pass. He goes out with Niall every few nights, alcohol sloshing around inside his belly like an unwelcome high tide. It helps a little – Niall’s wide grin and laughing eyes distract for moments at a time, but every other second is spent thinking about Liam’s forlorn face when Zayn said no, or the way in which his eyes sparkled with mirth when Zayn managed to dack Louis during the choreography for _Best Song Ever_ that one time. Liam never leaves him for too long, whether it’s what he said during that day’s rehearsal or the way he said nothing at all those months prior. He’s a constant, and he’s wearing Zayn down to skin and bone.

“You need to get out, Malik,” Louis says one night, Harry’s head in his lap. The three of them are lounging by Harry’s pool, moonlight glinting invitingly off its surface. It’s not warm enough to go in, but by the way Harry keeps edging closer Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to squirm out of the rest of his clothes and into the water as bare as the day he was born without him or Louis noticing. At this point, Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if Louis joined him. “Experience what’s out there.”

“I suppose all those pints with Niall mean nothin’, then.” Zayn says, slurring with exhaustion. Rehearsals are relentless, and the fact that his mind has been racing more often than not with everything that’s _shit_ means he hasn’t truly been able to relax. To add to it, his phone sits heavy on the ground next to his mug of cold tea, flashing accusingly every now and then with a new message or missed call. The dread inside him grows just a little, stretching its tendrils a little further past his throat and sneaking into his chest.

Harry snorts, his curls shifting as he fidgets against Louis, bringing a hand up to grasp at Louis’ wrist, pulling his hand down and settling it on top of his own curls. Zayn can see Louis’ tattooed fingers scratch, and Harry lets out a contented hum as he loosens his grip.

“Pints with Niall,” Harry scoffs, and the red of his eyes is clear in the moonlight. His lips are a dark pink, evidence of the shared smoke between himself and the man next to him. “They’re lovely, but Niall won’t give you head.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, though his heart pangs a little at the thought of anything like that. He’s not someone who thinks about it at all, not unless he’s with someone and he likes them. He gets it, he really does – it’s a good tension reliever, and it’s always nice to feel wanted. But whenever Zayn’s tried, it’s always left him feeling like a fucking idiot – because it’s nice to be wanted by someone, but when it makes you remember just how someone _else_ doesn’t want you, it kind of loses its appeal. Zayn’s been living with this for years, and it’s never solved any problems like books and films like to pretend it does.

He’s unsurprisingly lucid given the barely touched tea at his feet, which makes the way Harry is sprawled across Louis even more amusing than usual. Louis’ hand still rests in Harry’s hair, and the other holds his night’s primary activity loosely, barely burning and probably needing to be relit.

It’s rare that the three of them hang out like this, not when Zayn’s more likely to feel like a third wheel inconvenience than a friend. But asking Niall to come would’ve meant excluding Liam; and Zayn might be angry, but he’s not cruel. He knows Niall’s off having a good time with Liam tonight, and Zayn wouldn’t ever deny him that. He’s not about to take away Liam’s friendships just because their own might be nothing but wet tinder.

“When was the last time the two of you hooked up sober?” Zayn asks, feeling a little vindictive. Louis glares at him, red eyes making it all seem rather comical.

Harry huffs.

“Are you quite finished?” snaps Louis, taking another hit and moving his hand from Harry’s curls to the younger man’s chest, resting over one of his sparrows, the other seeming lonely now that its partner is covered up.

“Zayn’s just jealous.” Harry retorts, looking up at Louis through half-lidded eyes. The moment stretches on, Harry’s mouth parted and wet, the tips of Louis’ fingers brushing a nipple–

“Okay!” Zayn says loudly, scooping up his mobile and standing. He leaves his unfinished tea – the two about to have sex next to the pool can clean it up as an apology – “See you tomorrow, then.”

He leaves but the words stick with him, nevertheless. Maybe... maybe this time it’ll be different. If he goes out, if he dances with someone, if he takes them home... maybe this time he’ll be able to forget about the man most likely catching up with his fake girlfriend. Maybe this time he won’t see brown eyes in every face, or remember the way Liam’s lips felt on his, soft and warm and hesitant.

Niall agrees a week later with only two days left of rehearsal, though Zayn’s not sure he really knows what he’s agreeing to. When Zayn turns up at Niall’s flat an hour after they wrap in his tightest black jeans and a dark patterned vest that gapes at the sides – showcasing his array of tattoos – he merely raises his eyebrows and switches out his vans for dress shoes.

Maybe he does know, though, because as soon as they’re waved in by the bouncer – a guy who knows Niall’s face, at least – Niall’s at the bar and ordering the two of them shots like it’s 2012 and they’re nineteen again, eager for a good time and not much else.

“You’ve got to speak to Liam, mate,” Niall tells him three shots and a beer in, Zayn swaying a little as everything lags around him, the lights an array of colours better suited to an upbeat dance track than the sultry RnB they’re blaring through the speakers. They’re in the VIP area, the two of them – sans bodyguards because Niall convinced them they weren’t needed, apparently – and Zayn’s eyeing up the dance floor for a reason he’d rather not name. “He’s pissing himself.”

“Liam’s fine,” Zayn assures him. Niall looks at him sceptically, and Zayn waves him away with a frown, “He is! S’got Soph ‘n’ you, yeah? Li’s good.”

“Zayn,” Niall says, as close to stern as he’ll ever get. Zayn swings his head around to look, hair flopping in his face. He needs to fucking shave it. “Liam’s fucking beside himself. You’re being an arse.”

“What?” Zayn shouts over the new beat, the back of his neck dripping with sweat, his eyes squinting to focus in the darkness of the club, “Fuck? Niall–”

“Nah, mate,” Niall says, shaking his head and finishing off his beer with a swig, “I’ve been agreeing to drinks with ya because it seemed to help, but you’ve been avoiding him and Liam’s cracking it.”

Nothing Niall is saying is making much sense. Zayn was leaning into him but he pushes away suddenly, staggering to his feet.

“Fuck off!” He exclaims, the words sinking into his skin and making his heart beat frantically. Liam doesn’t fucking care about him, doesn’t fucking want to talk to _him_ , does he? Liam lied; he lied about them, about why Zayn was sick, about Sophia, about everything. Zayn’s not the one being a fucking arse – Liam’s fucked it all up, and Zayn needs to find someone else before he fucks it up even more.

Zayn doesn’t know what happens to Niall – he’s shoving his way out of the VIP area and into the throng of bodies on the dance floor. It’s a song he recognises this time, the last club experience flashing across his mind briefly. His skin is pulsing, the sweat gliding against his vest and making everything vaguely sensual. His hair sticks to the side of his face even as he pushes it away. The lights dance across his skin, and the body in front of him glistens with glitter and sweat and _dancing_. Zayn’s hands grasp onto a waist, the flesh giving away briefly. She’s curvy, and she leans into him to shout in his ear over the music.

“Francesca,” She says, and Zayn realises that’s her name.

“Zayn,” he shouts back, lips dragging across her ear to her cheek, and suddenly they’re kissing. He slides a damp hand into her curls, the heat between them making sweat slide down his temples, his neck straining forward to lick into her mouth more thoroughly. Her moan is lost in the noise of the club, and the way her body grinds into him helps him remember there’s music. He rips his mouth from hers, moves down instead to bite into her neck, hoping for something back, for anything, for sense for want for need for _anything_.

His lids open half-heartedly, and he looks down at the mark he’s made to see something underneath, something brown and odd-shaped.

He shifts back, brings his right hand up – the other still in her hair – to dig a blunt nail into the mark. Francesca jerks closer to him, her hips in line with his own, though she lets out a confused noise at the softness she encounters there.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Zayn’s drunk, so drunk, and he doesn’t know why he’s here or what Niall was talking about but he fucking well knows at least this – it’s not enough, it’s not right. He can’t use someone else for his own purposes; he can’t use Francesca to forget about Liam. She has a fucking birth mark on her neck, just like Liam; now that he looks at her face, the red lights darkening her brown eyes, he sees that she’s got brown curls. Her brows are perfectly shaped, and her lips are pink and open, a tongue coming out to wet them absently.

She’s beautiful, but she’s not Liam. No one will ever be Liam.

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters, gently letting go of her, his nail dragging accidentally. She moans again, but Zayn’s shaking his head, hair flying into his eyes, “I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Her hands drag over his arms as he turns. He can’t hear anything over the music, and he doesn’t turn around. She might’ve said something, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. Francesca will go back into that pit of grinding people and she’ll find someone else to fuck.

Zayn won’t. He can’t.

The cool night air hits him like a slap to the face when he stumbles out of the doors to the club. There aren’t any paps around, which he’s thankful for, but sooner or later someone’s going to see his face and _know_ , and then he won’t be so alone.

He nearly drops his phone on the ground but he manages to get up his contacts and click a name, any name.

It rings and it rings and it rings but there’s no answer. Zayn doesn’t know what time it is, or what day, but someone’s got to pick up, _someone’s_ got to listen.

“I can’t,” he groans into his phone after the beep. He’s taking great heaving breaths, and his cheeks feel wet and familiar, “I’m sorry, I tried. I can’t. I just love ‘im. It’s fucking shit, and I hate it. I just wan’ it t’stop.” A brick wall slams against his back, and Zayn’s on his arse now, shivering and hot and wet and tired, “Fuck. I should leave,” he slurs, “Yeah? Alrigh’, _fuck_. Liam. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–”

“C’mon, pick up– oh, Christ.”

Zayn feels hands grasp his forearms and yank.

“What’re– bleeding hell, Zayn, what the fuck are you calling Liam for? _Shit._ ” Niall’s got Zayn’s right arm around his shoulder now, holding him up. Zayn shivers, coughing in the cold and feeling like his eyes will shut and never open any minute now. “When I said t’talk to him I didn’t fuckin’ mean when you’re _pissed_.”

Zayn thinks he throws up somewhere along the way, between Niall’s words to someone and the movement of the seat beneath him. Niall’s cussing him out regardless as they enter his place, stumbling. He’s dropped heavily on the couch, the springs beneath creaking with his weight. Zayn groans, long and low, burrowing into the cushion beneath him. It’s scratchy, and his jeans are too tight, and he can feel the sweat and the glitter on him and he just wants to _sleep_ , but everything’s too hard, and–

The first thing he realises when he wakes up is that his head feels like someone bashed it against a wall. Repeatedly.

“Shit.” Zayn groans, flinging an arm over his eyes as he turns to lie on his back. His mouth feels sour and his limbs feel heavy – it’s too early to be awake, but his bladder is full and desperate for relief.

He stands unsteadily, like he’s rusty at walking, and stumbles to the nearest bathroom he remembers on the ground floor of Niall’s home. Once that’s done, followed up by a sculled glass of water, he scrubs at his eyes and scratches the stubble on his face before moving back to the living room and sitting down on the couch.

Zayn searches his pockets for a cigarette and comes up short. Huffing, he hangs his head, cradling it in his palms as he thinks about how the fuck he got to Niall’s place in one piece. The last thing he remembers is grinding up on some woman on the dance floor, and somehow he doesn’t think he brought her back to _Niall’s_ for anything.

“Zayn,” Niall calls out, and Zayn turns to see him at the doorway, arms folded as he leans against the jamb. He straightens and walks over, socked feed with his boxers and plain t-shirt reminding Zayn of nights in hotels years ago. “You right tit.”

“Yeah, alrigh’,” Zayn mumbles, scrubbing his face roughly before looking up at Niall now stood in front of him.

“Not alright,” Niall says, shoving at Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn nearly falls back against the cushions but stops himself just in time. Niall frowns at that, and suddenly Zayn’s vest is being lifted and Niall looks like he’s inspecting him for stab wounds or something. “You’re too fucking skinny.”

Zayn swallows nothing, chest suddenly tight.

“I’m always too fucking skinny.” he tries to reason, picking at his blunt nails, the quicks stinging as he does so.

“Not like this.” There’s silence as both of them process that. “That’s why it hit you so hard last night, yeah? _Fuck_ , Zayn. You fucking scared me. This is almost as bad as–” He catches himself just in time but the message is clear enough.

Zayn thinks of other things he’s remembered – vague flashes of skin, shot glasses lined up as far as the eye can see, injuries to his person he didn’t remember getting back then, let alone now...

“This has happened before, hasn’t it?” Zayn questions hollowly, staring down at his knobbly knees in distaste.

Niall sighs, and it’s like all the fire rushes out of him. Zayn looks up to see him purse his lips before he answers.

“Yeah, buddy. A fair few times.” He sits down next to Zayn, his side emanating a warmth that’s welcome in the cool air of the room. Zayn’s not exactly a conductor, by any means.

Niall’s wide palm comes up to rest on Zayn’s left shoulder, sliding across his vest to squeeze the nape of his neck, solid and _there_.

“I hate to say it but you’ve got damage control to do, mate.” Zayn turns his head, Niall’s thumb not digging in slightly under his jaw.

“Paps?” Zayn asks tiredly, running a hand through his sure to be unkempt hair. It feels lank and greasy. He’s sure he looks terrible, because he certainly feels it.

“Nah,” Niall says, squeezing once more before retreating altogether, “Liam. You rang him.”

Rang him? Zayn wracks his brain for that, and remembers the difficulty dialling, the urge for someone to _listen_ , the jumbled voicemail he left on Liam’s phone not really knowing it was _Liam_ at all, but somehow managing to fuck everything up because _that’s what Zayn does_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Zayn groans, wincing, “He’s goin’ to hate me.”

Niall doesn’t say anything, and Zayn groans again. He’s gone and cocked it all up, worse than before. He can’t even get it up for anyone else, and Liam _knows_ that now. He knows, and he’s going to do something stupid because of it because he’s _Liam_ , and he’s _self-sacrificing_ , and _good_ , and Zayn doesn’t fucking deserve him for the shit he’s put him through. He never fucking deserved him at all.

“What did he say?” he mumbles, turning his head a little to glimpse Niall’s face. His friend is pale, but it’s early morning and he’s Irish so he gets a free pass on that one. His eyes, though, seem less lively than usual. Maybe it’s Zayn’s imagination, but he feels like the slight creasing at their corners shows _worry_ , which is not a look Niall regularly sports, if ever. It doesn’t suit him. At all.

“That’s a conversation you’ve got to have with Liam.” Zayn sighs and leans back against the cushions, widening his legs to give his groin some breathing room. Why the fuck did he sleep in these godforsaken jeans?

Niall joins him, and they sit in silence for a few moments.

Zayn’s head drops. Niall’s pointy shoulder might not be the most comfortable, but the way it goes from tense to relaxed soon after is worth it. Zayn looks up at him, at his worried eyes and small smile.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a wanker,” he says quietly. Niall doesn’t deserve to be treated like he’s the problem, or like he’s a buffer between Zayn and Liam. Niall’s his friend – his friend who has a life that Zayn really knows little to nothing about right now. His memory hasn’t gifted him with any information on that front, and he’s been such a prick he hasn’t even asked. “How’re you doin’, Nialler?”

“Ahh,” Niall grins then, shrugging his pointy shoulders and making Zayn hold back a pained grunt, “Same old, same old. Can’t complain. You know me, always having a laugh.”

Zayn sees the worry recede a little, but sees the bags underneath Niall’s eyes and the way his hands keep twitching.

Zayn pushes him down, and Niall lifts his feet up to rest on the couch. It’s a damn comfortable couch; Zayn can sleep on anything, but he knows Niall bought it for a reason.

“Let’s sleep a while, yeah?” Zayn prods. Niall says nothing, just brings a hand up to ruffle Zayn’s greasy hair before settling further into the cushions, and Zayn knows then that he’s forgiven.

When they rock up to rehearsals together after lunch, Liam looks at them with a determined expression and Zayn remembers – he remembers his confession, remembers how he’s fucked it up and he remembers that resolution he made one week into rehearsals. He’s got five months of tour to get through, and Liam knowing that Zayn can’t sleep with anyone is inconsequential in the face of that.

Because what is Liam going to do? If Zayn talks to him about it, lets him think he remembers the message, he’s just giving room for Liam to do or say something stupid. Something like setting Zayn up with a mutual friend, or telling him _It’s okay, Zayn. I love you. You’re my best mate, alright? We’ll sort it._

How the fuck can Liam sort it this time? When the last time he tried he lied straight to Zayn’s face? How can he sort it without doing _that?_

He can’t. So Zayn says nothing.

He ignores the pointed looks from Niall and sticks to Louis all day much to the annoyance of Harry, who stares at Zayn like he’s trying to win a contest. He’d laugh if his life wasn’t so messed up.

“We’re done.” Paul announces a day after that; a day after a stormy look passes across Niall’s face before he so obviously distances himself from the situation; a day after Louis gives him an especially painful nipple twist; a day after hours of Harry’s intense stare followed by a frown, his expression clearing right after; a day after Liam’s determined expression falters when Zayn dodges him to talk to Paul about _dance improv_ , of all things. “We’re back up to speed. A few adjustments here and there but you’re looking good and as far as I know, sounding fantastic. Good work, guys.”

They thank Paul and the rest of the choreography team before they leave the venue. There are fans outside like there have been every night to varying degrees. It’s a late one, though, so Zayn signs a few more posters and takes a few more selfies than he usually does, high on the promise of the beginning of the end. He ignores Liam a metre down the line from him, focusing instead on making his writing as legible as possible, and smiling more at the fans who seem particularly overwhelmed.

“Can I get one of the two of you, together?” A girl asks – she can’t be more than fifteen or so – with a tentative look on her face. Zayn follows her pointing hand to Liam, who looks over right as he does. There’s a moment there, Zayn thinks as he locks eyes with Liam, where he could say yes and let it all go; just forget about everything that’s gone to shit and take a photo with Liam like they’re best friends again. Like they can ever be that again.

He looks away, back at the girl.

“Plenty of them online, isn’t there?” answers Zayn, grinning. If it’s a little sharper than his usual, she’s not going to know.

“Oh,” she starts, smile faltering a little before she’s beaming again, “Can I take one with you?”

“‘Course, babe,” Zayn says, softening, missing the clenched jaw of the bandmate to his left as he bends his knees to get to her height, putting an arm around her shoulders, “Let’s do a goofy one, yeah?”

 

***

 

June hits, and with it Zayn realises he has one more stop to make before he leaves for Cardiff.

“I’m going to miss you, _piyaara_ ,” His mum says, hugging him upon his return to Bradford on the second.

“Mum, I just got here. You don’t have to say goodbye for another two days.” he says into her shoulder, embracing her tightly.

She pulls back, smiling, before ushering him through.

“ _Jaan_ , _Zain_ is here.”

His dad turns, face red from the steam of the pot in front of him. He’s got on an apron, one of the novelty ones his sisters bought him a few years ago. Considering he has two parents who can cook, you’d think Zayn would be better at it.

 _Must’ve skipped a generation,_ he thinks as his dad grins wide, coming forward to hug him even tighter than his mum did.

“ _Baita,_ ” he says, pulling back to cradle Zayn’s face. Zayn crinkles his nose up, secretly beaming. “Just in time for dinner.”

“Where’s Waliyha?” Zayn asks as his father turns back to the stove, his mother sorting through some documents on the kitchen island, “I’ve got some bags for her to bring to my room.”

“ _Zain,_ ” his mother snaps, but his father laughs, “Wali is not your chauffeur.”

“Take your own bags up, idiot.”

“Wali,” His mum sighs warningly as Waliyha walks into the kitchen, smacking Zayn on the back of the head as she passes and peering into the pot Yaser has on the stove once she gets there.

“What?” His sister defends herself, coming back over to kiss Zayn on the cheek before turning to look at Trisha, “He is.”

The warmth he feels around his family is unlike any other, he realises as they all sit down to Spaghetti Bolognese and fight over who gets the last piece of garlic bread. He forgets easily what it’s like to be surrounded by the people who raised you, who helped you become the person you are. He doesn’t talk to them enough – he always realises this, and yet never changes – and he misses their easy teasing and sometimes questionable advice. His family is everything.

Those tendrils of dread he felt way back at Harry’s crawl further past his chest to linger in his belly along with his pasta, swirling around like they’re ready to come all the way back up in a disgusting display of vomit and bile.

The missed calls, the unanswered texts... he has a lot to answer for. And yet, the wide smiles on all of their faces show he’s forgiven.

“Sorry, sorry,” Doniya rushes to apologise as she comes in, swiftly kissing Safaa’s cheek – who rubs it off in faux annoyance – and sitting down with her own bowl, “Work ran late, and–” She stops, frowning at Zayn, “When did you get in?” She shakes her head as if to clear it, but Zayn can tell she’s trying not to smile, “Anyway, I’m here now, yeah? How was everyone’s day?”

He’s helping clear up – the rest of his siblings given a pass because he’s turned up and he “Owes like a million, Mum,” Safaa complained, grinning at his glare – when his Dad finally says something.

“You’re looking thin again, _Zain._ ” He says, passing over a wet dish for Zayn to wipe. Zayn pauses, clenching his jaw before wiping it down without a word, “Your mother is worried.”

Which is code for the fact that _he’s_ worried, but Zayn doesn’t say anything.

“Are you coming back home, like you planned previously?”

Zayn splutters – it’s the only way to describe the noise he makes, and the fact he almost drops the utensil he’s holding.

“What?” He asks, gobsmacked.

For all that Zayn loves his father, he doesn’t appreciate the way he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t play, _baita,_ ” He says, handing over a dripping pot like he hasn’t just answered a lot of Zayn’s questions, “You know.”

“Not for _sure_ ,” Zayn snaps, though there’s no venom in it. He pauses, considering, as he places the hastily dried pot on the rack, “I don’t know anymore. Maybe. Not yet.”

Yaser hums, hands wrist deep in hot, soapy water. His hair falls into his eyes, and Zayn looks at his father properly for the first time in a while.

The soft slacks he’s wearing belie the fact he’s mostly a stay at home dad these days, preferring to let Trisha go to work and do the chores himself, enjoying his afternoons with the occasional beer but mostly tea, and a football match, whether it’s live or not. His t-shirt is thin, worn, well-loved. His arms are strong, like Zayn’s always known them to be, and a little hairier than Zayn’s own. His eyes are framed by long lashes – Zayn gets them from somewhere – and he looks the kind of tired one does when they’ve had a busy yet productive day.

He looks happy, and explaining the mess Zayn’s made of his own life seems like the kind of thing that might change that. He’ll tell his dad eventually – he always does – but for now, for these few days... Zayn doesn’t want to remember. He just wants to forget.

“Did you see Stoke City absolutely smashed Liverpool?”

His dad gives him a discerning look like he knows exactly what Zayn’s doing, but must decide to indulge him just a little anyway, getting into a passionate description of all of Liverpool’s wrongdoings, something Zayn usually engages in with Louis.

Doniya corners him when he gets upstairs; she’s already lying on his double bed with a comic in hand – one of his older Spiderman ones, well-loved and re-read a thousand times over.

“Shove over.” He says, dumping his things by his desk and plonking himself down on the bed. Doniya rolls her eyes but moves over, sitting up to do so. She flings the comic onto the floor to Zayn’s glare, elbowing her in the side in retaliation. They struggle for a few moments before settling against the wall behind them, sitting perpendicular on the bed, Zayn’s posters above their heads and straight across from them.

A comfortable silence falls upon them, Doniya warm up against his right side. His elbows are on his bent knees now, and his sister matches him. The faint sounds of the telly can be heard from downstairs, and it sounds like Waliyha is playing her music in her room, which is across from Zayn’s.

“Bit weird being back here,” Doniya says, quiet. Suddenly Zayn’s room feels small, feels cramped, feels _child-like_ , “Like something out of a dream.”

“People only say that in movies, Don,” Zayn teases, smirking. Doniya elbows him, and he winces at her pointy elbows. Zayn might be skinnier than her, but she packs a mean elbow jab. “Alrigh’, alrigh’, shove it!”

Doniya snorts, leaning back a bit more so her head tilts back and she’s looking at Zayn’s non-descript ceiling.

“I miss our old house.” She sighs. Zayn gets it – he bought this house for his parents as a gift, to show his gratitude and his love, and they accepted it well enough. Moved out of their crappy cottage-like place. Still in Bradford, but bigger, more comfortable for a family of their size. But Doniya and Zayn spent the majority if not all of their childhood in that cottage-like house, with its creaky stairs and dusty windows. The rotting wood of Zayn’s own doorjamb had been fucking annoying, but he misses it. He misses the way he had no privacy, the way his mum kissed his cheek before school every morning, the way his dad roped Zayn into games of football after school, the way Waliyha loved his drawings so much she stuck them on her patchy bedroom door. He misses the solitude of a Bradford that knew his name not because he was in a world famous boy band, but because he was good at theatre and the son of Yaser and Trisha. He misses fucking around with his friends, smoking behind sports oval toilets with their shirts off so the smell wouldn’t stick to them. He misses staying up late singing Mario, he misses the sounds of mice in the walls in winter. He misses it.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees quietly, looking down at his tattooed hand, the mandala stark and alien, “Me too.”

They’re quiet again, and Zayn hears his sister put on _Kiss You_ , like she knows he’s listening and wants him to storm into her room and turn it off, fighting her all the while through huffs of laughter and faux grumbling, enduring her stinging smacks to his limbs in his attempt to find something else.

He refrains, though his breath hitches like he’s gone through the playful battle anyway, lungs sharp and cutting.

“Might not want to come back, though,” Zayn admits softly, and Doniya tilts her head back down, turning it to stare at him, “Might want to do something else. Music, still. But different.”

Zayn misses it, yeah; but Bradford doesn’t miss _him_. He remembers, now, thinking it before. Remembers how he spoke to mates he hadn’t spoken to in years, how the divide between them stretched like a gaping canyon. He remembers the false promises to catch up, how they’d all gone and had lives without him. How he’d been the first, and they’d all followed suit because that’s what adults _do_ , and Zayn’s not a Bradford bad boy anymore. He’s an adult. He’s got a life outside of these four walls, outside of Bradford and designing his own tattoos before he even turned eighteen. He’s got a life that’s waiting for him, if he lets it happen.

“Thought you wanted a break,” Doniya reminds him tentatively, and this time her elbow settles gently into his side, and her left hand encloses his right wrist. He turns his hand palm-up at the touch, sees the way his fingers twitch a little, a nervous habit Doniya’s always picked up on. “Thought you wanted to go to uni.”

“So did I,” Zayn snorts, pulling his fingers in to form a quick fist before releasing again, Doniya’s grip soft and warm, “But I realised... I just wanted to turn back time a little. I wanted to go back to the before, where I wasn’t Zayn, one fifth of One Direction. I maybe just wanted to be Zain Malik, quiet student on his way to uni for teaching.”

It goes without saying that he can’t ever be that again, even if the thought puts a frown on Doniya’s face. Her grip tightens a tad before loosening again, and her hand moves up to hold his, a form of comfort and stability in the swirling mess of Zayn’s realisations.

“It’s not worth it anymore,” Zayn tells her, and it’s like the telly downstairs and Waliyha’s truly horrible rendition of Carly Rae Jepson don’t exist, “You were right. I... what was keeping me there doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Liam?” Doniya prods, and it’s the first time she’s really let him know she’s aware.

Zayn closes his eyes, fights off memories of stilted smiles and aborted hugs from the 2015 he didn’t exactly live through. They’re coming in more often now, one or five at a time, rolling on top of one another like particularly fierce waves. They don’t leave him drowning, or even knock him off his feet – they settle in like old friends, like they never left. They simply make sense, like Zayn never forgot at all.

“It’s more than him,” Zayn croaks, and swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s had enough of tears, he doesn’t need to shed any more, “It’s all of us. Them. We were best friends,” His voice cracks, and Zayn brings his left hand up to cover his eyes, head dropped down like he can hide his pain behind a palm, “I’ve lost my best friends.”

Doniya tightens her hold on his hand and says nothing.

“There’s this sense, like I’m two different fucking people,” Zayn says – thinking of _“Welcome back, shithead!”_ and _“Dickhead Zayn at least knew when to shut his mouth.”_ and _“I’m not going to say I wish you’d never hurt yourself,”_ – as he fights off the trembles in his hands. He feels sweaty, and cold, and unwell. His lashes brush the tops of his cheeks, but they’re dry. He’s empty. “I get it now. I feel like... I feel like I was always goin’ to do this. No matter what. It’s always been me. This person has always been around, and–”

He chokes on his unshed tears, on the dry sobs in his chest.

“I love you,” Doniya says, bringing their joint hands to her chest and cradling them with her other, like she can fuse them together and never let him out of her sight – like that will protect him, or make him happy. “I’ll always love you. So will Baba, and Mum. Even Waliyha.”

Zayn snorts, a broken sound.

“It’s okay to move on,” she begins, and Zayn’s full-on shaking now, the fingers he has resting on his brow moving in and out of his vision with it, “You’re not a bad person, Zayn.”

“I know,” Zayn stutters out, weak and hitched, “and that’s what makes this so hard.”

Doniya pulls him in, and he follows their hands to rest his head in the cradle of her shoulder. Doniya releases her grip and moves her arm around him, like a cocoon. Even so, he feels exposed; raw and red and relentlessly sad.

If he doesn’t have One Direction, then what _does_ he have?

The thought keeps Zayn awake long after they lie down on Zayn’s bed together, two parentheses curled toward each other; long after Doniya falls asleep, her breaths even and loud.

It’s the thought that haunts him, but it’s the reality of it that he has to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm over on tumblr at [rainbowliam](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com) if you'd like to scream at me. But honey, you've got a big storm comin'! 'Cause this ain't over yet!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for pain. You've been warned.

He’s in a daze when he arrives in Cardiff on the night of the fourth, the latest he could possibly get there according to Rosie. He checks into the hotel without running into any of the boys – well, his version of checking in, which involves receiving his room key from Paul and dumping his things at the foot of his bed. He’s travelling light – he hadn’t felt like adding to the clutter of everything else, and knew he could always buy things along the way if he needs, like farewell presents to himself from every city.

He wakes up early the next day, skips breakfast to walk around the empty conference rooms of the hotel. He knows no one will look for him there – too used to him sleeping in late, going to the green room, and then playing around until the gig that evening. It’s like the calm before the storm – he’s got five months left of tour to pretend like he wants to be there, to do his very best to perform for the fans like he did two months ago. It’s not fair to them to do anything but. Doesn’t mean Zayn’s looking forward to it, though; and it sure as fuck doesn’t mean he can’t take a few hours before to be by himself, to think about exactly nothing at all.

He ends up spending his afternoon there, finds a corner to sit in that allows him to close his eyes and wait it out.

“Where the hell have you been?” Caroline demands when he walks into the dressing room right on time. Louis’ in there already pulling on some jeans, but Zayn avoids his stare and gives a shrug to Caroline. Seeming to realise it’s not the time, there’s a slight pause before she shakes her head and shoves his outfit at him. He pulls on the navy blue vest and ripped black jeans, gets some stage make-up and a hair styling from Lou – who is blessedly silent though the pinched look on her face lets him know she’s not happy with him – before he’s fitted with his inner ears and given his mic, hanging around backstage. He drinks half a bottle of water to fight against the sweat already beading at the back of his neck, feeling lethargic and wholly unready to perform. But he has to. He owes the fans this.

Niall pats him on the back as he comes up beside him, says nothing though the expression he sports is blank... enough of a statement if Zayn ever saw one. Niall’s never blank, but Zayn’s too tired to figure out what it means and how he can possibly fix it. Once he gets through tonight, once the routine starts up again, he’ll cope a lot better. For now, he’s floating through all of it; detached like a boat adrift. His anchor’s gone, but that doesn’t mean he can’t find his way back, keep himself steady. It’ll just take time.

“Hands in, boys!” Louis announces, bouncing up to them with seemingly endless energy. Harry follows in his wake, light on his feet with his white and yellow silk shirt flowing behind him. Liam brings up the rear and instead of the frown, or the genuine pout, or the stormy expression Zayn expects from him, he’s got a huge grin on his face. It dims when he sees Zayn, but not because he’s unhappier – it’s more like it turns soft instead of garish, like seeing Zayn is a true cause for happiness and not an exaggerated energy. Zayn’s shocked enough that when Niall subtly pulls his hand up with his own, he doesn’t say anything. Their two hands rest in the middle, Louis’ slamming on top quickly enough. Liam joins, and Zayn freezes upon seeing the ring on his finger. It’s the ring Zayn gave him just over a year ago; the ring Zayn couldn’t help but buy, thinking of it sitting on Liam’s hand. A promise Liam would never understand.

Zayn clenches his jaw, unable to form words. He looks up at Liam as Harry places his hand on top, covering the black ring on Liam’s right ring finger. Liam looks right back at Zayn, and Zayn is caught between Liam’s stare and his own slowly forming dread. Liam’s going to do something stupid, Zayn just knows it.

It’s only once the introduction video comes on that Zayn feels anything resembling excitement – although it feels like a Pavlovian reaction more than anything, like his body is tuned to pump blood faster, get his hands shaking, once he hears it. They come out onto the stage amongst smoke and screams, and Zayn hangs up the back near Niall and Louis before he has his first solo of the night, hearing the screams reach a higher frequency before they drop down again at the chorus. Towards the end of the song Liam looks to him, jumping up and down with the beat, a smile on his face just for him.

Zayn turns away, brushing past Louis a little too harshly before walking down the side aisle to reach the main stage. He adds in his riffs because distracting himself with his own voice seems to be working, the pounding underneath his skin and the cold sweat on his temples lessening to the point where he can ignore them. His stomach cramps but Zayn continues, throat straining to get as high as possible, hips turning away from the rest of the band to see the crowd ahead, to see the blurry faces and hear the incomprehensible screams.

He’s centre stage for the beginning of _Steal My Girl_. Liam’s to his right and their eyes catch on “She’s been my queen,” before Zayn turns once more, hand on his aching stomach and eyes in front of him. He’s looking into the crowd again as he walks down the walkway for the chorus, looks at a few fans in particular and gives them a small smile, tired but thankful.

It all begins to blur into one sweaty, messy thing. Zayn’s just trying to get to his marks on time, hit his notes. His stomach’s still twinging, his throat’s still straining. He downs another bottle of water after _Ready To Run_ , avoiding Liam’s eyes and edging away from Louis even as they ascend the steps up the stage. He doesn’t speak a word outside of lyrics until _Better Than Words_.

He’s up the back – he doesn’t have any major solos with this one, so his vocals take a backseat. It means he can breathe a bit easier. He’s got his left hand resting on his abdomen, even leans against a bit of the set when he loses his breath. He’s a little dizzy but that’s not unusual. The adrenaline can get to be too much, and so sometimes his vision goes a bit spotty. Zayn’s used to it.

It doesn’t stop Niall from catching his eye, though. Doesn’t stop Niall from giving him a worried frown, from putting his thumb up in question. Zayn nods, flicking his hair out of his face.

“I’m fine!” He mouths as best he can, and then suddenly Niall moves into his solo.

When the boys join Zayn up the back for the end of the song, Louis gives him a playful push of the shoulder. Zayn nearly stumbles, catching himself at the last minute and shooting Louis a glare. He’s not exactly feeling that vibe right now, not feeling any way at all, really.

As Liam reaches them, their eyes meet. The song seems to get slow, sluggish, and Liam’s face goes from determined to teasing in the blink of an eye. Zayn’s skin feels sweaty and over-stretched, like there’s not enough to cover his body, like it’s thin over his bones as it struggles to stay together.

“I don’t know words to sum it up,” They all sing, Liam’s eyes boring into Zayn’s as he comes closer, past Louis to be within a few feet of Zayn, “‘Cause words ain’t good enough!” Liam’s close enough now that his hips touch Zayn’s, that he’s moving up and down in a dance that’s more like a grind. Zayn’s stomach curls in on itself again, pain shooting through him. He pushes his hair out of his face, breath shaky as he continues to sing, a little quieter this time so that if he stumbles through it, it won’t be noticeable. “I can’t explain your love!” Zayn closes his eyes against the lights, the screams that have doubled in volume, the feel of Liam against him. He closes his eyes and he breathes through it, hands moving to the beat so it doesn’t look like he’s frozen up completely at the contact.

The song ends and Liam retreats with a laugh and a playful shove to Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn’s better equipped this time to deal with it and doesn’t stumble, drawing a sharp look from Louis.

Thankfully they all separate as they get into their places for _Don’t Forget Where You Belong_ , Louis sitting alongside him. He’s grateful for the break, his stomach easing up a little, his legs stronger now that they’re not supporting him. He sculls another bottle of water before they begin but it tastes ashy on his tongue, thick and unpleasant.

He moves his shoulders to the beat once Liam starts singing, lifting his head from in between his knees to see the fans in front of him. There are so many faces crying, grinning, singing along. Zayn locks eyes with one girl – she looks to be his age, maybe a bit older – who shoves her sign up as soon as he does. Zayn looks down, eyes dragging, and reads.

_LIAM,_ it reads in bold letters, medium-sized so it can fit the rest of the sentence as well as the accompanying picture, _IF YOU LIKE IT PUT A RING ON IT?_

And there Zayn is, a picture from some interview, his face cut out and stuck inside a heart.

He clenches his jaw and looks away, trying not to flinch, trying not to let his face crumble, trying not to let _everything_ crumble. It’s made all the worse for the fact Liam wore _his_ ring tonight. A ring Zayn picked out, imagining it to mean any number of things except for the thing he really wanted it to mean. The way Liam’s wearing it tonight, proud and open in front of tens of thousands of people... Zayn wants to think things have changed. He desperately, truly wants to.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, his heart beating a mile a minute, sweat pooling in his collarbones, _Allah. Fuck. Fucking shit._

Suddenly Louis’s hand lands heavily on Zayn’s shoulder, and he tunes back in to realise he’s got to stand up. The hand slides off, Louis looking confused before Zayn brings the microphone back up to his mouth and does his fucking job.

His hands are shaking, the hair on his head wet with perspiration, his legs unsteady and his stomach still fucking cramping. Zayn’s heart pumps hard and fast but weak, his lungs drawing in rattling breaths. Nothing feels right, nothing feels good.

“Lights off when they should be on!” Louis sings, hand on his stomach and face scrunching up with feeling, “Even stars in the sky look wrong!”

“Short days when the nights are long,” Zayn belts out, taking in a deep breath to get through the second line, “When I think of the things I’ve done!”

And fuck, it’s hitting him. He’s crouched over with the effort, panting, trying to recover.

“I’m always free to run,” He straightens, closes his eyes, screams the last line long and loud, “HOME!”

The crowd are screaming, deafening, as the band go into a guitar solo. Zayn’s chest is heaving and he opens his eyes to see Harry staring at him, mouth agape, from across the walkway.

“SING IT!” Niall shouts, and it’s just the drums and the crowd chanting back at them. Zayn turns to them, lifts his mic, mouths along with the words, glimpses the open mouths of their fans, the colourful signs, the lights of glow sticks.

“Don’t forget it!” Zayn sings, and then there’s an arm around his waist and he turns his head, sees Liam with his mic out for the crowd. His red plaid shirt draws Zayn’s eyes, having only properly looked just now, before he glances up at his face. He’s serious, shouting the chorus.

“You were never on your own!” Harry’s voice reverberates throughout the stadium, and Liam pulls Zayn closer. Zayn’s skin feels ripped apart, like Liam just displayed his innards for the whole of Cardiff to see. His thumb brushes the low cut of Zayn’s vest, and the brush of skin on skin leaves Zayn breathless. He imagines he can feel the warm metal of the ring through cotton. He gulps down his feelings and continues.

“Never... never... never!” Liam sings with him this time, his fingers digging into Zayn’s side. He feels hot, and Zayn can’t decide whether he wants to move into the touch or jerk away. His brain is pounding against his skull along with the beat, his hands trembling still, the mic a heavy weight in his hands and on his shoulders.

Zayn can’t do it. He can’t. This is only the first show. It’s too much.

Liam’s hand slides up to the nape of his neck and squeezes on the last lines of the song, and this time Zayn _can_ feel that warm metal, a brand more permanent than his fantail tattoo. Zayn fights off a shudder and moves away. Liam’s hand falls and Zayn refuses to look at his face. He’s terrified of what he’ll find there; pity, or sadness, or the worst thing of all – understanding. Zayn’s not ready to face him just yet. He wipes his face on his left sleeve and it’s only then he realises it’s damp, like he was crying and didn’t even notice.

He goes through _Little Things_ on auto-pilot, staring into the crowd with eyes squinted, pretending he can’t see the signs or the sad faces of their fans. He’s fine. A few tears are nothing, he thinks dryly, compared to the last few weeks.

He says nothing when they go backstage for the encore, simply changes his navy vest for a white t-shirt, pulling his hair up so it’s not in his face. It’s too sweaty to do anything else, even if it gives him some kind of protection when it’s down, like no one can see what he’s feeling when his hair’s in the way.

“Zayn–”

“Not now, Liam.” Louis cuts him off, and Zayn sends a silent thanks his way, ignoring Liam’s hovering to drink some more water, putting his inner ears back in and waiting to go back on stage.

He reaches his mark on Liam’s “I know how it goes from wrong and right,” which must be some kind of cruel irony. He can feel Liam’s stare as he continues, his “Did they ever fight like us?” making Zayn turn away, his back to the rest of the boys.

_Don’t think about it,_ he thinks viciously, palms sweaty, shirt already sticking to his body as the song continues, _just don’t think about it_. 

Niall joins him for his solo, like he knows Zayn can’t keep it up. Liam’s there with him, providing harmonies as Zayn softly sings. Zayn’s energy is low, his chest shredded as if he’s been mauled by some kind of wild animal and left for dead.

Harry looks at Zayn during Louis’s solo, a slight frown on his face. Zayn gives him a small nod. It’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’s just got to get through the next few songs and then he can go back to his room and sleep. He can sleep until he has to get up tomorrow and repeat, then get on a plane, and do this all over again somewhere new.

But he’s not thinking about that now. Just two more songs. He can do that.

He hits his high note – probably the highest note he ever has to hit – amongst the screams. He’s walking down the runway now, Liam ahead of him. Liam looks back over his shoulder, and then he’s waiting for Zayn, putting an arm around his shoulders as they sing the chorus together. Zayn’s ignoring him the best he can.

“We can make it if we try,” Zayn riffs, ignoring the words, ignoring the way Liam’s right next to him, ignoring the satisfied look of Niall, ignoring the way the fans are going crazy, ignoring the memory of _IF YOU LIKE IT PUT A RING ON IT?_ , ignoring everything that’s led him to this point because it’s the only way he can get through it.

“Zayn,” Liam breathes out once they reach backstage, people everywhere trying to get things organised so they can all get back to the hotel with minimal fuss, so that everything’s set up for tomorrow night good as new, “Zayn!” He grabs Zayn’s arm and the press of the ring has Zayn whirling around.

“What?” He shouts, trying not to pay attention to the looks they’re receiving, “You made your fuckin’ point, Liam, alrigh’? Now _piss off!_ ”

Liam rears back, shock written all over his face. It’s as if they experienced two completely different shows.

“Back off!” Louis snaps, shoving Zayn, who stumbles a few steps.

“Hey,” Harry calls out, coming between everyone, a stern look on his face as he puts his hands out in a placating gesture, “Stop.”

Liam still has the shocked look on his face from behind Louis, whose expression reads angry and disappointed and protective all at once. Niall lingers in the back as Harry remains between them. The lines are clear.

Zayn looks at the ring on Liam’s finger, the way Liam’s thumb is rubbing it over and over.

Zayn sneers and turns back around, passes by a frowning Caroline to make his way to the car that awaits them.

He travels alone to the hotel.

 

***

 

No one seems to be talking to him, which is fine. Zayn’s used to it by now, anyway. They act like they were on good terms with him before last night but it’s much of the same, really.

He spends the day similarly to yesterday and thankfully Liam doesn’t bother with any of the dramatics of last night at the concert. Instead, Zayn is left largely alone, and he goes through the motions, singing and moving where he’s expected.

They land in Vienna on the seventh. Zayn goes because he doesn’t really know what else to do, or how to say it.

“Baba.” he greets that night into his mobile, relief flowing through him like a warm drink on a winter’s day.

“ _Zain,_ ” his dad replies, and Zayn can hear the smile over the phone, “How are you?”

He’s silent for a few stagnant moments, twirling the strings of his joggers nervously, his socked feet tingly with pins and needles from sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed for so long. An Austrian advertisement can be heard through the walls, and Zayn’s not surprised – Niall loves dubbed TV shows.

“I’m coming home, actually,” Zayn tells him, and saying it out loud for the first time feels good. Cathartic. “I... I don’t know why I thought I could do this.”

His dad sighs – but it’s not disappointed, not at all.

“You tried, _baita_. Sometimes things fall apart.”

There’s another silent moment, Zayn rubbing his brow tiredly.

“How much do you know?” Zayn asks, because he’s curious but also because he doesn’t know what he needs to explain.

“Nothing more than your sister,” Yaser admits, and Zayn can hear shuffling on the other end, like his dad just stood up, “But anyone who loves you would’ve known, Zayn.”

That hurts. He knows his dad doesn’t mean anything by it, knows he’s just saying that as his father he loves Zayn, and that he paid attention. He knows he doesn’t mean to imply that the boys don’t love him. Zayn knows that. It sticks with him, though, the way his family knew what was going on, how Perrie knew he was sick. That they all probably know he’s still that way. How they’re not judging him for his decision, how they just want the best for him, want him to be happy.

“Yeah,” replies Zayn, and it sounds empty even to his own ears.

“You know what’s best,” his father says, and Zayn closes his eyes against the pang in his chest, “You’ve got to do what’s best for you, no one else. Not for me, or your mother, or your friends. Think of yourself, Zayn. Not many other people will.”

When they hang up an hour later, Zayn stares down at his phone. No texts, no calls. There’s been no knock at his door, no tweet notification.

He plugs it in to charge and goes to sleep. It’s barely ten o’clock.

He wakes up the next day, has an apple for breakfast, and takes his phone with him to sit outside. He’s out in some garden area of the hotel, like a courtyard. The sun beats down on him, his blue jeans light in colour but proving more harm than good against the heat. He doesn’t call.

Lunch sneaks up on him. He takes his phone, pulling at the collar of his black t-shirt, hoping to get some air circulating underneath his clothes. He’s in the lift, then he’s in his room, air conditioning a blissful relief.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, his shitty Nokia. The phone that’s seen him through tour after tour, that’s been his link to Perrie, to his family back home. The phone that’s seen text message after text message come through from Liam, the phone that’s seen everything.

Zayn brings up his contacts. He dials.

“Zayn,” Heather answers, her voice low and professional, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. She knows he hates that, like he’s someone who hasn’t given her hell the past however many years. Like he’s her favourite client or some shit.

“Contract negotiation. How realistic is it?” He asks, because he wants to know how much he’s got to fight (How much _more_ he has to fight, he amends to himself) to secure his happiness.

There’s a pause. He knows he has her full attention now.

“That depends on what kind of negotiation you’re talking about,” She responds, succinct, “If you’re talking about a complete restructure–”

“It’s more like a break.” Zayn explains, scratching at the back of his head. There are no sounds from next door to distract him this time, and although he’s come to terms with his decision it still makes him feel like he’s breaking a promise when he thinks about it that way for too long.

“A complete disregard of the contract?” Heather prompts, “As in, you’d like to break your contract with Modest! Management?”

“Yeah,” Zayn answers, his lungs expanding to breathe properly for what feels like the first time in _months_ , “I’d like to leave the band.”

There’s a moment where everything seems to fall into place. It’s the last piece of the puzzle; the satisfaction that it fits even though it’s the last piece so it _has_ to fit. Zayn takes a second to relish in it, to know that he doesn’t have to suffer any longer. He can get better. He _will_ get better.

There’s a moment, and then it vanishes into thin air.

His hotel door beeps and then flies open. Zayn turns, phone still against his ear, hair flying with the movement.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Louis demands, low and ominous. Zayn’s as still as a mannequin until he realises Heather’s talking on the other end of the line, that she’s discussing meetings and loopholes and new contracts to make up for the old–

“I’ve got to go.” Zayn says, and simply hangs up.

“You fucking wanker,” seethes Louis, his expression thunderous as he stalks forward to shove Zayn, “You _absolute BASTARD!_ ” His shout sinks deep into Zayn’s bones, rattling them.

Zayn clenches his jaw, pushes back.

The shorter boy laughs, a sarcastic cackle that leaves the hair on the back of Zayn’s neck standing on end.

“I cannot _believe_ I came here to apologise,” Louis says, incredulity lacing his every word, “I cannot believe I came here to apologise and you’re planning on fucking _leaving!_ ”

“Lou?” Harry’s voice calls out, and Zayn looks behind Louis to see Harry half-out of his own hotel room, a tray of room service finished behind him. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Zayn’s fucking leaving the band, that’s what’s fucking going on. You’re an absolute piece of shit, Malik.” Louis doesn’t bother to turn around and face Harry, just stares at Zayn like he’s the worst person he’s ever met, like Zayn is worth less than the dirt on his shoes, like he’s embarrassed that they were ever partners in crime.

Harry walks in, eyes shrewd.

“Zayn?”

Zayn glares at the ground, phone in hand, refusing to explain himself.

“NIALL!” Louis calls out. There’s no reply. “Don’t let him leave,” Louis orders Harry, who simply looks back at Zayn, his eyes piercing. The room’s silent, but they can hear Louis in the corridor.

“Niall, get your fucking arse out here.”

“What the hell, Louis? Can’t a guy nap in peace?”

Niall’s dragged through the door to Zayn’s room. His exasperated smile morphs completely once he senses the atmosphere around him, tense and angry, like a pissed off cobra ready to strike.

“What’s happened?” He prods, cautious.

Zayn drops his phone on the bed. He’s owning up to this. It’s his decision. So what if Louis heard him? They’d all find out soon anyway. This is just expediting the process, just making it more confrontational than Zayn would’ve liked.

“I’m leaving,” Zayn says, looking at Harry. His face says nothing. Louis remains furious, and Niall’s eyes widen like it’s the last thing he expected. It’s a joke, surely. Zayn wants to laugh, wants to laugh until tears are coming out of his eyes. They knew. They all fucking knew, anyway. “I’m leaving the band.”

“What?” asks Niall, shocked, stepping forward so he’s the closest to Zayn now.

“I’m calling Liam,” Louis grits out, ripping his phone out of his pocket, “After all the shit you’ve done to him, and now you’re just fucking off? Not on, mate.”

“Lou–” Harry begins warningly.

“ _No._ ” Louis snaps, glaring at Harry now, “This has fucking gone on long enough. Liam?” He turns away, talking into his mobile, “Get the fuck up to Zayn’s room _now_. I don’t care if you’ve not finished your workout, tell Mark you’ve got to go and _get here_.”

“You act like this is news to you!” Zayn blurts out, hands gesturing wildly as Louis hangs up, “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” Louis starts sarcastically, stepping forward like a predator stalking its prey, “Was there a memo sent out? Didn’t seem to fucking get it, did we?”

“Stop fucking lying!” Zayn exclaims, glaring at Louis, “Just because I lost some memories doesn’t mean I’m an idiot!”

“Could’ve fucking fooled me.” Louis snarls.

“You all knew,” Zayn says through gritted teeth, cruel, “You all knew, and none of you said _anything!_ ”

“Zayn,” Niall says, hands in front of him to get Zayn’s attention, “We just... didn’t want it to happen again, alright? You’re our friend.”

“Well look where that fucking got you,” Zayn snaps, feeling fire run through him for the first time in a while. His limbs feel strong, powerful – a complete contrast to the days prior. He’s not sinking anymore, no longer wearing concrete boots in an ocean. He’s fucking flying, and he’ll be damned if the others are going to drag him down now. “Lying to me was the worst thing you could’ve done.”

“Zayn?”

All four of them look to the door, Liam occupying it in blue shorts and a tank top, small towel over his shoulder. He looks pale, even with the sweat dripping down his temples, even with the tan on his skin from the summer sun. His mouth is parted, like he’s been caught unawares.

“What’s going on?” He asks, pulling at the towel to wipe his face, chest heaving. Zayn glimpses dark metal and inhales sharply.

Liam must’ve run to the door. He drops the towel on the floor and steps forward to stand next to Louis.

“Payno,” Niall starts, but Harry cuts him off. He’s still staring at Zayn; he’s staring at the flush in Zayn’s cheeks, at Zayn’s clenched jaw and balled fists. He’s staring at Zayn in a whole new light.

He’s staring at Zayn like he doesn’t even know him.

“Zayn’s leaving.” Harry concludes, cold and detached.

“What?” Liam asks, chuckling, frowning in confusion though there’s a small smile on his face.

“Zayn’s leaving the band.” Harry clarifies, crossing his arms, face blank.

Liam’s head whips around to look at Zayn, eyes concerned.

“Zayn?” Liam questions, coming forward to stop in front of him. Zayn glares over his shoulder at the wide open door, through it to Harry’s room. His bed is unmade, a water bottle on each bedside table, enough room service for two.

“Zaynie?” Liam prompts, and his voice breaks in half. This time Zayn can’t help but look. Liam’s brown eyes bore into his, searching, as Zayn stares up at him, jaw hurting from how hard he’s gritting his teeth, nails digging into his palms. Liam finds what he’s looking for because he steps back, almost trips over his own feet, his face well and truly pale. He swallows thickly. “No,” he croaks, “Zayn, c’mon...”

The heat rushes out of him, exhaustion left in its wake. Instead of relief, all Zayn feels is anguish. He just wants to be okay. Why won’t they let him be okay?

“I’m sorry,” he apologises quietly, looking at Niall’s downcast eyes, a familiar sadness creeping into his own heart, “For what it’s worth.”

He brushes past Liam, inhaling shakily at the contact, before bumping into Louis on his way out. He walks down the hallway as fast as he can, angry tears burning in his eyes.

“Zayn!” Liam calls out once he’s halfway down, their rooms having been at the far end. Steps can be heard behind him. Liam’s running, trying to catch up. “ _Zayn!_ ”

Zayn’s reached the elevators now, desperately hammering the down button. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, or what he’ll do. He needs to leave, though. He needs to separate himself from the situation, take a breather, and come back and talk to Heather before their show on the tenth. He needs to separate himself, just separate himself–

“Zayn,” Liam grits out, pulling on the hand still rapidly slamming the button, “ _Stop._ ”

Zayn whirls around, glaring, ripping his hand from Liam’s grip. Liam glares back, taking back Zayn’s wrist and pulling, pulling so hard Zayn has to follow him, down a few doors to Liam’s room. The others must still be in Zayn’s because there’s no movement in the hallway. They bought out the whole floor, anyway.

The door shuts behind them softly, though Liam’s glare remains.

“You can’t leave.”

“I didn’t think you told me what to do, Liam,” Zayn snarks, running a hand through his hair, which is stiff with sweat, “I’m not yours to order around.”

Liam huffs, frustrated with Zayn’s pettiness.

“I’ve never ordered you around,” Liam starts, before shaking his head, “You can’t distract me from this, okay? You’re not leaving.”

Zayn bristles.

“ _Yes,_ ” he stresses, “I am.”

“Okay,” Liam says, shrugging like they’re not talking about never being friends again, “Why?”

Zayn splutters, incredulous.

“ _Why?!_ ” He shrieks, sees Liam wince. _Good. It_ should _fucking hurt._ “Why? Because all of you lied to me!” Zayn throws a hand out at the left wall, indicating the rest of the band. “Because I was goin’ t’ leave before any of this memory bullshit even happened, Liam!”

“No,” Liam shakes his head, and Zayn can see his hands trembling slightly, “No, you weren’t. You were just going to take a break. That’s what you said.”

Zayn stares at him, mouth agape. And then it comes to him, like a moment he’s reliving, the clearest recall he’s had since the beginning of all of this.

_It’s a hotel room just like this one –_ they’re all fucking alike _, Zayn thinks absently – and Liam’s on the bed whilst Zayn hovers by his bag, a few bits and pieces already in there. Liam’s frowning at him, and Zayn knows it’s the kindest of gestures. The last kind gesture, most likely. Liam’s not going to forgive him for this. None of them are._

_ “It’s just for a few days,” Zayn explains, biting his lip to stop the truth coming out, “Maybe a week at most. Clear my head, yeah?” He doesn’t add in a promise; not like he would have done six months ago. “We’ll see each other soon enough. Besides,” Zayn adds on, plastering a smile on his face as he walks over to Liam, standing between his legs and trying not to think of why this feels so natural, so _right _. He lifts his right hand, giving a gentle pat to Liam’s left cheek. Liam smiles, eyes crinkling, and Zayn’s heart gives a half-hearted stutter at the warmth on his friend’s face. His_ friend _. “You’ll have the rest of the boys.”_

_ “Yeah,” Liam replies, standing up. He pulls Zayn in by the shoulder, his arms encasing him in a tight hug. Liam’s mouth brushes Zayn’s neck as he continues, “S’not you, though. Quiet ones, we are.” _

_ Zayn’s heart breaks just a little more then, and he knows he’ll never forgive himself for this. _

_ “Not so quiet now, Leeyum,” Zayn whispers, and feels a smile form against his neck, Liam’s breath warm and comforting in its regular pattern, “Me, though...” _

_ “Shove it!” Liam laughs, pulling back with a wide grin. He’s so beautiful, smiling and happy. Zayn knows it’s better this way, knows that if he told Liam that he was leaving then the last words said between them would stick. Just like they had with Louis, whose perceptive insults and missed punch to the face Zayn will never forget. Even if he’s forgiven – no matter how unlikely – Zayn can’t erase that moment from their history. _

_ “You’re plenty loud, alright?” Liam tells him, chucking Zayn’s chin up like they’re on stage in front of tens of thousands of people and it’s the only way he can appease him, the only way management will let them show their affection. “When you talk it’s because it’s important. There’s no excess.” Liam’s face recedes into something tender, his eyes glittering in the lamp light. “It’s one of the things I love about you.” _

_ Zayn grunts, swatting away Liam’s hand. His friend laughs and sits back down on the bed. _

_ “Yeah, yeah,” Zayn says, clearing his throat so that his voice doesn’t break and ruin everything he’s done to keep Liam happy, “Love you, too.” _

“You didn’t know,” Zayn states after an awkward minute, Liam looking at him in confusion, “You didn’t know I’d planned to leave.”

“You... you were going to leave?” Liam gets out slowly. Zayn turns away, faces the bed; Liam’s bed, made up perfectly. There’s a watch lying on the bedside, an unopened Twix waiting. Liam’s post-workout snack, an indulgence. Zayn’s face crumples, the unshed tears coming back.

“I’m sorry, Liam.”

“Zayn,” Liam starts, quiet. Zayn hears him come over, turns around at Liam’s hand on his upper arm, burning the tattooed skin there like a brand, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Liam’s face is pleading, like he’s hoping Zayn will confide everything in him. As if Zayn has the strength to do that. As if Zayn can expose himself even more, a live wire waiting to shock anyone who comes near. Zayn’s ripped open, and Liam wants Zayn to give him the needle and thread?

“I couldn’t,” Zayn says, voice wet and thick, looking between Liam’s eyes like it’ll distract him from the emotion there. That last memory spurred on more – nowhere near as vivid, more of a knowing than any actual event, but Zayn remembers now. Most of it. “I just wanted you to... I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Zaynie,” Liam whispers, bringing his hands up to cradle Zayn’s face. Zayn’s left cheek heats up with the ring resting there, a memory of giving it to Liam surfacing from the deep recesses of his mind. He’d never forgotten, but thinking of it always brought him pain. Liam smiles, sad and sorry, “I could never hate you.”

“You would’ve,” he chokes out, miserable, fighting off the tears, “You would’ve, don’t lie.”

“ _No, Zayn,_ ” Liam says sternly, and he grips Zayn’s face more tightly, giving him a gentle shake, “I couldn’t. I can’t.”

Zayn stares at him, mouth parted, his heart racing.

“I’m in love with you, Zayn.” Liam confesses, and his thumbs sweep under Zayn’s eyes, wiping away the few tears there. He smiles, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, soft and warm and _loving_. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” Zayn responds automatically, a knee-jerk reaction. Liam doesn’t. He can’t. He doesn’t. Zayn’s loved Liam for a _lifetime_. Liam... no...

Liam laughs, his head thrown back, eyes scrunched up so much Zayn’s traitorous heart skips a beat. The vice around his chest is gone, his face is dry, and Zayn is... Zayn’s smiling. A real, true, genuine smile.

“Yes,” Liam says through chuckles, looking down at Zayn, “I do.”

The only sound between them for the next minute is their quiet breathing, Zayn looking up at Liam with a kind of wonder in his veins, a jitteriness in his bones. Liam’s smiling still, his stubble soft not prickly when Zayn slides a hand up his neck and onto his cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” asks Zayn, remembering faintly a time when kissing without permission got him a rejection and months of pain.

Liam doesn’t say anything; he simply angles his head down, breathes out over Zayn’s lips, before taking one between his own and then they’re kissing. They’re actually kissing. And Zayn’s not dreaming.

Liam’s left hand threads itself into Zayn’s long hair, the other dragging down his chest to rest on his hip, fingers digging underneath Zayn’s ribs and sparking a laugh. Liam smiles against Zayn’s mouth, kissing him through it. Zayn’s arms move to rest on Liam’s shoulders, and he shivers when Liam pulls on his hair gently, moaning as he rips his mouth away. His mouth latches onto Liam’s neck, teeth scraping, and he feels the vibrations of Liam’s own moan.

Zayn pulls at Liam’s white vest, scrunching his face at the way it’s a little harder in places, the sweat from Liam’s workout having dried. Liam laughs, steps away to grip it at its edges and pull it off before his hands are on Zayn’s hips and they’re kissing, deep and hard.

Liam’s hands move from Zayn’s hips to the front of his jeans. Liam pulls back to look him in the eyes, and Zayn pauses a second before he moves his own hands to cover Liam’s, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. Liam pushes back in, licking into Zayn’s mouth and making him moan at a particularly sensual swipe to the roof of his mouth.

“You,” Zayn pants when Liam pulls away, pushing his jeans down, “You said we were just friends.” Vaguely, he thinks he should be asking more questions. But Liam’s hands and mouth and body feel so hot and so good and Zayn’s lost to it.

“Didn’t know,” Liam rasps as Zayn steps out of his pants, Liam’s hand gripping his forearm tight the only thing stopping him from falling over, “Didn’t realise.”

Their mouths connect again, lips swollen and red and sensitive. Zayn pulls Liam closer to himself, stumbling back and knocking into the bed, falling behind him with a huff and looking up at Liam. His legs are splayed, black briefs tight on his skinny thighs. His t-shirt is rucked up against his belly, heart tattoo visible, the _Don’t think I won’t..._ stark against his stomach.

Liam pushes his basketball shorts down his legs, his briefs white and leaving nothing to the imagination. Zayn’s staring, he knows, and looks up only when he hears a chuckle, Liam trying not to smirk.

“Fuck off,” Zayn tells him, holding back a smile. Liam laughs and settles himself on top of Zayn, pushing his shirt up with his right hand as he kisses a path up Zayn’s chest, licking at each tattoo as he goes before he shifts up to capture his lips once more. Zayn cradles his waist, pulls him closer so their chests brush, Liam’s chest hair grazing against his nipples and making him shudder.

Liam pushes his t-shirt up further until Zayn’s forced to let his hands flop above his head, Liam flinging the item onto the floor once he’s done, Zayn’s hair mussed and a little out of control.

“ _Fuck_ , Liam.” Zayn pants out as his neck aches, Liam’s mouth sucking at the tendons there. He moves down, teeth scraping against Zayn’s _Friday?_ tattoo before his lips land on those resting in the centre of Zayn’s chest. Zayn stretches back, neck straining. His hands bury themselves in Liam’s hair. They’re shaking. His whole body is shaking, just a little.

He squeezes his eyes shut when those lips drag down, moving to a nipple to bite and then following the light hair until they reach the waistband of Zayn’s briefs. Zayn has to look; he opens his eyes, teeth digging into his bruised bottom lip, before he looks down. Liam grins up at him, fingers curling under the elastic and pulling. Zayn’s hard, his dick throbbing with the need to be touched. Liam’s got a hand on it before it can bounce around embarrassingly, and Zayn groans in response.

He bites back a curse, lifting his hips up so his underwear can drag down his legs and away. Liam’s own are damp at the crotch, and Zayn can clearly see the outline of his thick cock.

Liam licks at Zayn’s inner thigh, and Zayn shoves his hands back in Liam’s hair again, trying not to jerk off the bed. He’s hot and sweaty, flushed down to his chest, abs twitching with the effort it takes not to thrust helplessly. Zayn can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he’s not going to wake up any second, cold and alone in his own hotel room.

“Liam,” Zayn gasps out as he’s taken into a wet, hot mouth. He looks down, sees swollen red lips around his dick and moans loudly; too loudly, considering their bandmates are down the hall. “ _Shit._ ”

It’s another few minutes of wet suction and a gliding hand before Zayn pushes at Liam’s shoulder, desperate for this to last longer than a measly five minutes.

“What?” Liam asks hoarsely, wiping at the spit on his mouth. Zayn swallows thickly, staring for a few seconds.

“Just,” he pants, “didn’t want to come.”

Liam grins, giving Zayn another quick pull before he moves up, kissing Zayn deep and wet. His hand slides from the side of Zayn’s face back over his chest and shoves his own briefs down to sit under his dick, before his hand hovers over it. He goes to grab it, obviously intending to pull them off together. The thought alone has Zayn closing his eyes with a shiver but he puts a hand out to stop him.

“What’s wrong?” Liam breathes against his lips, kissing him once more before rearing back, locking eyes with Zayn, flicking between them.

Zayn says nothing. He holds Liam’s dark gaze, chest heaving, as he grabs Liam’s hand and entwines their fingers, the ring nudging Zayn’s left ring finger, and a brief flash of the future flies across Zayn’s mind. Their cocks brush and Liam groans, falling into another kiss as Zayn rubs his thumb over Liam’s.

Zayn nudges his head into Liam’s as they break apart, noses brushing. He pulls their entwined hands down until they break apart at his hip. Covering Liam’s, he slides it across his own hip to rest on his arse, pushing at Liam’s hand suggestively, further back and around.

Liam freezes, pulls back with his eyes open.

“Zayn?”

“Please,” he starts, brushing their noses against one another, eyelashes sweeping against cheeks, “I want you to.”

“Are you sure?” Liam asks, moving further away from Zayn to take a proper look at his face.

Zayn smiles, soft, as he stares at Liam. His Liam. It’s staggering... the effect he has. His gentle face, concerned eyes. Zayn gaze roves over him, sliding down his neck to look at his broad shoulders, then his chest all the way to his happy trail, which leads to a dick Zayn wants to get his mouth on sooner rather than later.

He looks back up, smile gone, replaced with an expression he’s sure looks _wanting_.

Liam’s small smile, though, breaks his focus.

“I’ve done my waiting!” Zayn exclaims, putting on a voice. Liam frowns. “Twelve years of it! In _Azkaban!_ ” There’s a pause... before Liam grins and bursts into laughter, his forehead dropping down to rest on Zayn’s chest.

“I can’t...” Zayn says, biting the inside of his cheek, “believe I just said that.”

Liam’s head comes back up, grin blinding.

“I love you.” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Zayn softly.

“I love you, too,” Zayn whispers against Liam’s mouth, huffing out a laugh, “And I’m sure.”

Liam’s smile dims. He looks at Zayn for a long moment, eyes searching his face, before he curls the fingers on Zayn’s arse in a loose imitation of a _goosing_ , then slides off the bed. He slides his briefs down his own legs, leaving him bare as the day he was born.

Zayn sits up on an elbow and ogles him when he bends over, rummaging through his belongings for–

The lube hits Zayn in the chest, a foil wrapper gripped in Liam’s right hand.

“Draw me like one of your French girls?” asks Liam, quirking an eyebrow at Zayn’s position. His face seems tight, and Zayn realises he must be just a little bit nervous.

“If you could draw, maybe.” Zayn retorts, grinning. Liam’s face loosens, his smile fighting to break out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam drawls, rolling his eyes as he settles over Zayn again. The condom lies at his hip as Liam uncaps the lube, spreading some over his fingers and rubbing them to warm it up a bit.

He leans down to kiss Zayn, licking into his mouth in a steady rhythm. Zayn’s closed his eyes, moaning a little, when he feels the first finger.

Liam bites Zayn’s lip as he enters him, and Zayn shifts his hips, getting used to the intrusion as he relaxes.

“Alright?” Liam mutters against Zayn’s mouth. Zayn nods, reaching a hand up to the back of Liam’s head, pulling him in and crushing their lips together.

It’s been a long time since Zayn’s done this. Years even with just himself, and it doesn’t hurt so much as it’s uncomfortable. After a while he urges Liam for another finger, biting the inside of his cheek as it slides in, probably a bit too much lube. Though Zayn would argue you can never have enough.

Liam’s face is precious, though. He’s got the smallest frown marring his brow, his neck gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. His lips are slightly pursing in concentration as his fingers curl and brush against–

“ _Chodna,_ ” Zayn spits out, Urdu slipping through as white hot pleasure flashes up his spine. He arches a little, bearing down on Liam’s hand, “ _Liam._ ”

“ _Christ._ ” Liam breathes, and Zayn opens his eyes to see Liam staring at him heatedly, blushing just a little.

“Are you,” Zayn huffs out, thrusting down again and letting out a moan, “Are you _blushing_ , Leeyum?”

“What?” Liam says, distracted. He’s looking down at his hand and Zayn realises belatedly he’s three fingers deep now, curling them on every other thrust to brush against Zayn’s prostrate so lightly it’s a tease more than a reward. Liam’s eyes snap up to Zayn’s and his blush darkens. “Shut up.”

His cock feels full and heavy when he laughs, and he moves a hand down to pull at himself. Just a few strokes before he lets go, gripping the covers beneath him instead.

“I’m good,” Zayn breathes out, swallowing thickly, “I’m _good_ , Liam.”

As soon as he’s left empty Zayn sits up, nearly knocking his own head against Liam’s.

“Zaynie, what–?”

“Sit back, yeah?” He murmurs, pushing at Liam’s shoulders until he’s kneeling on his legs, “Just like that.”

Zayn grabs the foil wrapper from the bed and starts to rip it open, fingers trembling with the fact he’s about to have sex with Liam. Liam’s about to be _inside him_. He can’t comprehend it.

And to think only an hour ago he was about ready to snap.

“Here.” Liam says softly, taking the wrapper when Zayn fails to break it. He bites down on the edge, pulling until it breaks. Zayn’s staring at his mouth, eyes dark. His hair falls down the right side of his face. He’s sweaty, his arse is slippery with lube, and he needs this to happen _now_.

Liam rolls it on, sticky hands settling on Zayn’s waist right after as Zayn shuffles over, planting his thighs on either side of Liam. They ache at the stretch, unused to holding up Zayn’s body weight at such an unusual angle. But Zayn doesn’t want to lie down, and he wants to kiss Liam over and over and over until he can’t tell where he ends and Liam begins.

Liam moves his right hand to rest underneath Zayn, slowly lowering him onto his cock. Zayn’s got a hand around him, guiding. The tip pushes into Zayn as he gives a long groan, his head dropping onto Liam’s left shoulder. He moves his hand away as he slides down, the stretch of Liam stinging a bit, like he’s being split open a centimetre at a time.

Zayn’s giving small grunts with every inch Liam gets deeper. He feels the hard grip of Liam on his arse, on his waist, blunt nails digging in to control his movement down, to make sure they’re going slowly, to make sure Zayn’s not pushing himself.

It’s overwhelming. All he can feel is Liam; Liam inside him, Liam around him. The brush of his chest hair on Zayn’s inked skin, the press of his fingers into Zayn’s ribs, the wet heat of his mouth on Zayn’s left shoulder, the graze of teeth a promise; he feels Liam’s thick cock twitch as he bottoms out, feels the stretching burn of accommodating him. He feels the love he has for Liam flying through his veins, accentuating every feeling, giving life to his tired muscles. Liam’s everywhere, and Zayn breathes out the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

“ _Jaan,_ ” he groans, thighs clenching around thighs. Liam’s grip gets tighter before Zayn continues, “Move.”

Zayn lifts himself up, his dick brushing against Liam’s trembling abs, and groans as Liam pushes up into Zayn’s thrust down.

“Fuck,” Liam grunts, biting down on Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn jerks, licks at Liam’s neck, up and up until he can smash their lips together, biting and sucking and licking into Liam.

Their position only gives them a few minutes before they’re both panting with the effort, nowhere near athletic enough to keep it up for long. They slow down, Liam giving a thrust every ten or so seconds as they kiss languidly.

“Can I–?” Liam stutters, breathing heavily, “Your back?”

Zayn nods into Liam’s shoulder, panting, his arms weak and thighs spent.

Liam wraps his arms around Zayn’s torso before pushing up with a grunt, lying Zayn back on the bed heavily in one movement. His arms come up on either side of Zayn’s head, sharp and sudden. The roll of his hips as he adjusts has Zayn making an embarrassing sound.

“Did you just whimper?” Liam asks through a grin, biceps contracting and relaxing in a mesmerising rhythm as he holds up his own weight.

“Fuck off.” Zayn scowls, breaking into another sound as Liam thrusts again, his face clearing.

Zayn reaches down, the pleasure spiking now as Liam grinds into him, measured and steady.

“Liam,” breathes Zayn, closing his eyes, biting his lip on another foreign curse as they continue to move together.

“Zayn,” Liam moans out a few minutes later, pace picking up, his left hand burying itself in Zayn’s hair, scratching his scalp and giving a sharp _yank_ to make Zayn shudder, “ _God_ , Zayn. You’re–“

His hips stutter now, his orgasm creeping up on him. Zayn’s own rushes in on top, Liam’s breathy grunts making him more aroused, like a feedback of pleasure that’s leaving his skin oversensitive, his cock throbbing with the need to come.

“ _Jaan,_ ” murmurs Zayn, Liam’s jaw at his mouth and Liam’s lips on his neck, overcome with everything, with the fact Liam is here and inside him and loves him. Zayn’s heart feels fit to burst, his head a mess of admiration and wonder and absent of all the worry, the stress, the sadness of the last few months. He feels relief in every inch of himself, a calm settled over him like he can’t remember experiencing. Zayn’s in love, so in love, and Liam is, too. “I love you.”

Zayn’s pushed up the bed with the force of Liam’s last few thrusts, and he gives a grunt as one of Liam’s hands slaps down onto his waist, holding him down as Liam comes, voice hoarse and spent.

“Love you,” he gasps into Zayn’s cheek, and Zayn’s coming then too, his climax hitting him like freight train, “You’re not gonna leave. Love you so much.”

They’re both gasping for air by the end, bodies entwined, sweat making their legs slide against each other. Zayn’s fall to the side – he hadn’t even realised he’d nearly wrapped them around Liam’s waist – as Liam slips out of him. He moves to the right of Zayn, careful not to jostle him too much. Zayn stares at the ceiling, shaking.

“Zayn?” Liam murmurs, bringing a hand up to brush against Zayn’s right cheek. Zayn turns his head, stares at Liam’s soft face, his gentle smile. He’s sweaty, his hair a mess. Zayn feels his own sticking to his scalp.

Liam leans down and presses his lips softly to Zayn’s. Zayn does the only thing he can and presses back, his breath hitching when Liam sucks on his bottom lip for a few moments before breaking away.

“I’m going to shower,” Liam murmurs into Zayn’s mouth, eyes flitting up before focusing back on Zayn’s bruised and red lips, “D’you want t’ join?”

Zayn shakes his head slowly back and forth, feeling sluggish and tired.

“Later.” he whispers, left hand resting weakly on Liam’s forearm.

“Mmm,” Liam hums, kissing Zayn again, “Alright.”

Liam shifts to get off the bed, unashamed of his nudity as he grabs at some clothes on the chair by the bathroom door, looking back at Zayn’s body sprawled on the bed with a smile before he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing without the sound of a lock. Barely a minute later the water starts.

Zayn’s staring at the ceiling; it’s pristine, an off-white colour. It looks perfect. This hotel room is perfect; a five-star place picked out by their management team, known for its privacy and exclusivity.

_ You’re not gonna leave. _

Zayn hates it.

He sits up, muscles twinging. His thighs are quivering a bit, and Zayn realises he’s only eaten an apple today. That’s it.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Zayn cradles his head in his hands.

_ You’re not gonna leave. _

“Aren’t you somethin’ to admire?” sings Liam through the wall, his voice echoing beautifully off the tiles. ”‘Cause your shine is somethin’ like a mirror,”

Zayn shuts his eyes quickly, palms settling into them and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing.

Did... did Liam–?

He can’t even think it, the sudden nausea rolling in his stomach such a weakness that Zayn puts a hand over his mouth, eyes adjusting to the new light as his palms leave them.

“Just know that I’m always parallel on the other side!”

Everything’s flashing through his mind quicker than he can comprehend. Words, and kisses, and a touch so gentle Zayn didn’t think it could be anything other than love.

_ The wrong kind, _he thinks with a certain kind of detachment. 

Liam’s hesitation, his insistence that Zayn be okay with it even though he knew Zayn was relatively experienced. The heavy weight of a ring on his finger, like he knew what it would do to Zayn. The way Liam was blushing as he was fingering him, like he was embarrassed to be doing it. The tightness in his face, the way Zayn’s jokes distracted him from the fact he was pretending–

_ Oh God, _Zayn thinks, hands shaking. 

_ Fuck, _he thinks, eyes stinging. 

_ I can’t do this, _he thinks, heart breaking. 

“‘Cause I don’t wanna lose you now,” Liam belts out, voice confident and happy, “I’m lookin’ right at the other half of me!”

Zayn picks up his discarded clothes on auto-pilot, pulling his t-shirt over his head and shoving his clammy legs into his jeans. He runs his right hand through his hair, tears slowly sliding down his face. He blinks away his unfocused vision, inhaling deeply with a rattling breath.

_ You knew he would do something stupid, _he tells himself angrily, though the anger can’t quite seem to come to the surface. It’s adrift, and Zayn doesn’t feel much of anything. 

When he enters his own hotel room minutes later, it’s empty. The other doors are closed, so either his bandmates are back in their rooms or they’re out and about, confident in Liam’s ability to sway Zayn.

Another wave of nausea hits, too strong this time to fight as Zayn stumbles to the bathroom, vomiting up the remnants of the apple from that morning and a whole lot of water. His stomach cramps up a few more times causing him to heave nothing but bile into the toilet. After a minute or two with no more pain, Zayn wipes his mouth with some toilet paper and flushes it down with his stomach contents.

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands.

He drags his laptop towards him once he reaches the desk, brings up a flight database site and searches for trips to London from Vienna. He books the first available one in first class, a few hours from now. That gives him an hour to get his shit together and get to the airport.

He’s stuffing his smallest bag with anything he might need. Mostly his electronics. He even throws in a few bits and pieces of clothes, though anything around him can probably be replaced. He finally makes sure he has his passport, and then shoulders his duffle. He prints off the flight information, scrunching it in his hand as he flies down the fire escape stairs, knowing that he won’t run into anyone there. He leaves his card at the desk for Paul, and then grabs one of the taxis hanging out the back entrance of the hotel. He slips in so quickly that the two dedicated fans he glimpses ten or so metres away don’t see him.

On the way to the airport he blocks the numbers of all the boys. He texts Paul, tells him to call his lawyer if he needs anything, and then he texts Heather.

_ Just left,_ it says, _We’ll work it out later._

Then he turns off his mobile, leans back into his seat, and tries not to break down.

 

***

 

His flat is empty and cold, even though it’s June. Rhino’s at Danny’s, and Zayn had left the flat like he wasn’t going to be back there until September. He’d organised his sister to come and check on it once a fortnight, but considering they’d only just began the tour, it’s likely she’s not due for another two weeks.

He can’t go to his parents’. Not again. Not after the phone call with his dad, not after crying into his sister’s shoulder, not after worrying his mother. His younger siblings don’t need the stress. It’s summer. They should all get some time off from helping Zayn sort out his life. They deserve that at least.

So he stays in his London flat. He orders some Indian, spicy and eye-watering. His phone sits in the kitchen, untouched. His laptop’s turned off in his study. Zayn puts on Netflix, rewatches films he’s seen a thousand times, and doesn’t think.

He’s woken by a banging on the door.

“The fuck?” he mumbles sleepily, pushing himself off the couch. His PlayStation is in sleep mode, Netflix long gone. The flat is dark, the only light coming from neighbouring residences and the moon outside. Zayn got in at around eight o’clock, fell asleep by midnight.

He glimpses his microwave, _4:37_ illuminated in green.

“Open up, you wanker!”

Zayn whips his head around. He grits his jaw.

“OPEN UP!” yells Louis as Zayn stalks across the main room and down the hallway toward the door, furious, “OPEN THE FUCK UP–!”

Zayn turns the lock and yanks the door open. Louis stares at him, mid-shout.

Then he steps forward and clocks Zayn right in the jaw.

“What the fuck?!” Zayn exclaims, cradling his throbbing jaw. Louis pushes inside, pulling Zayn along stumbling behind him after he kicks the door shut. He drags him to the couch and shoves him onto it. Zayn’s eyes are watering at the throb of his face. He just woke up and got punched and he’s bloody confused.

“You’re a fucking _cunt_ ,” Louis spits, and Zayn glares up at him, “Harry doesn’t fucking like it when I use that word but you _really fucking are_.”

Zayn feels around his tender jaw with his tongue, wincing as it twinges with pain.

“You take advice from your fuck buddies now?” Zayn snarks, and Louis’s expression turns from annoyed to stormy in a split second.

“Harry’s the fucking love of my life and if he doesn’t want me to say one measly word I’m not fucking going to. I respect him.” Louis’ eyes narrow, and suddenly Zayn feels his insides dancing with nerves, “Unlike you, who treats the person they’re in love with like _shit._ ”

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He refuses to think of what happened, of what Liam did to make him stay.

_ You’re not gonna leave. _

Zayn wants to erase it all from his memory. Zayn wants to fall off the stage at soundcheck again and bash his head and forget _everything_.

“Honestly?” Louis starts, and his tone is dangerous, the kind of tone he takes with the interviewers he hates the most. It’s casual, but it holds promise for verbal humiliation Zayn’s never seen anyone else execute quite as well as Louis. “I don’t even fucking care about the band anymore, Zayn,” He shrugs, face blank, “You can fucking leave it. I don’t give a shit. We’ll probably be fucking better without you there.”

His expressions twists then into something ugly and hateful as he looks down on Zayn sitting on the couch.

“You can ruin the band, Zayn. You can even ruin the fucking music.” He takes a deep breath, face pale, and Zayn feels guilt stir up inside him, guilt that he’s brought one of his best friends to this. “But you can’t ruin _us_. You can’t fucking ruin what you have with us.”

And that? That makes Zayn angry.

He pushes up from the couch, shoving past Louis as he stalks away, breathing heavily.

“Us?” Zayn spits out, whirling around to face Louis now that he’s far enough away he won’t punch him, won’t return the favour, “Us? There’s no fucking _‘us'_ anymore, you idiot. ‘Us’ was ruined even before this shit with Liam!”

Louis’s fingers curl into his palms, his black t-shirt doing nothing to hide the tension in his shoulders. His hair lays soft and messy over his forehead, an illusion that Zayn falls for every time.

“I’m fucking sorry!” Louis exclaims, and he picks up some random ornament Zayn’s interior designer recommended and pelts it at the wall next to Zayn. A _crack_ sounds out, but Zayn still glares at Louis. “Is that what you want to hear?” He picks up another, pelts it. _Smash._ “I’M SORRY!” Another’s thrown. _Shatter._ “I’M SORRY WE WANTED YOU TO STAY!” One more. _Clunk._ “I’M SORRY WE WANTED TO BE YOUR FRIENDS AGAIN!”

“WE _WERE_ FRIENDS!” Zayn shouts back, picking up a book from on top of his bookshelf and whipping it at Louis, who dodges to the side, still glaring. “WE WERE FRIENDS UNTIL ALL OF YOU LIED TO ME!” He doesn’t mention Liam, doesn’t mention the fact that Liam was the only person who didn’t lie to him until Zayn let him into his bed. _Then_ Liam lied to him, when Liam held him and said he was in love with Zayn. Liam lied to him then, and it was the worst lie of them all.

Both of them are panting shallowly, chests rising and falling with quick breaths. Zayn’s arms hurt, his stomach aches, and his legs shake a little. Louis glares for a moment more before he collapses onto Zayn’s coffee table, head in his hands.

“If you don’t have us, Zayn,” Louis says quietly after a short silence, lifting his head to finish, “Then what _do_ you have?”

It hangs in the air, uncomfortable and cruel.

“Get out,” hisses Zayn, eyes flashing with rage, “Get the fuck out. GET OUT!”

Louis leaves without another word, and Zayn feels ten times worse.

 

***

 

Heather visits the next day, her auburn hair swinging as she walks into his kitchen.

“In the future, I’d appreciate it if you left at least _one_ line of communication open.” She utters, making a face at the empty take away containers piled up near the bin.

“What do you call this?” Zayn snaps. Heather shoots him a sharp look and he mumbles an apology, cowed.

“You’ve made my job very difficult, Zayn,” She tells him, not bothering to take a seat. She extracts a pile of papers from her satchel, turning them around to face Zayn and sliding them to him across the kitchen island. The cool granite is nice on a warm day like today, even if Zayn hasn’t been outside. “Difficult, but not impossible.”

“What’s this?” questions Zayn, eyes grazing over ‘renewed contract’ and ‘separation of talent’.

“This is your new contract,” Zayn frowns deeply at her, but she barrels on regardless, “Unless you want to get sued, a new contract with the same label and management is your only option. They don’t want to lose a prized investment.”

“I’m a person.” Zayn snaps, glaring at her. Heather rolls her eyes.

“To them you’re a source of income. Don’t be naïve, Zayn.” She sighs, and Zayn notices then that she has bags under her blue eyes, even if she’s covered them up with foundation. “A new contract means they don’t worry about losing you, and you can go on to make your own music like you’ve always wanted.”

Zayn goes to chew on the inside of his cheek, but grimaces when he remembers his aching jaw.

“Sign it, Mr Malik,” Heather suggests, tone weary now, “It’s the best you’re going to get.”

He’s picked up the pen but pauses before he puts it to paper, looking up at his lawyer in askance.

“What am I agreeing to, exactly?”

“One album within twelve months,” states Heather, brushing her hair out of her face, “Just like on your old contract. After that, you can’t sign with another label for a year. That’s your punishment. They’re being very lenient. Of course,” Heather smiles, bland and polite, “A year is a long time in your industry.”

Zayn looks down at the contract in front of him. He sees ‘artistic differences’, sees ‘amendment of old contract under a new name’, sees ‘Horan, Payne, Styles, Tomlinson to continue under former contract’.

_ “If you don’t have us, Zayn, then what  _ do _ you have?” _

Zayn signs.

 

***

 

He doesn’t go on Twitter. He doesn’t Google his name. Zayn knows there’s an article out there on him missing the Vienna show the night before, and he knows that there’s nothing positive being said about him right now. After all these years in the limelight he at least knows that.

He’s too nervous to do much else than text. He made the decision and it was the right one. It was the right one before Liam did what he did, and it was definitely the right one after. Zayn’s not questioning his decision, but it just feels like a whole lot more waiting.

Waiting for happiness, waiting for freedom, waiting for absolution.

So he texts, he doesn’t call. He tells himself his family’s used to it.

_ Left the band, _he sends his parents and Doniya. Waliyha and Safaa are still too young to know before the general public, though he still feels bad about the lack of warning. 

_ When are you coming home? _His mother sends back around nine that morning. Zayn hasn’t slept, so his initial text a few hours prior probably seemed out of the ordinary. 

_ Hopefully soon, _he replies, hesitating before typing more out, _got a lot to tell you_. 

_ Official announcement on the 13th,_ the next text that comes in reads, Heather’s succinct style a giveaway even if her name wasn’t at the top of the screen. _They’re letting you keep your assistant._

Rosie. Well at least he likes her.

He’s spent his days getting groceries delivered, attempting to cook some of his mum’s recipes (to limited success), and finally getting through his Netflix list. He’s nearly finished _Parks and Recreation_ when he gets the call at lunch time.

Perrie’s name flashes on his screen, and Zayn hits ‘accept’ before he can second guess himself.

“So,” She says, her tone clipped. Zayn grimaces. Amongst all the... well, amongst _everything_ , he’d forgotten to let her know. They’re best friends, and the guilt sits heavy in his chest, “You’re leaving.”

“How–?”

“Don’t be stupid, Zayn. I know you. If you’ve missed a show and they’re citing ‘exhaustion’, you’re leaving. You’d perform from a hospital bed if you could.”

Zayn thinks of nervous sweats, of limbs too heavy to bring him on stage until Liam guided him with a hand at the small of Zayn’s back; Zayn thinks of vomiting prior to performing, of how that became a regular occurence and so he began refusing to eat before shows. Zayn thinks of appointments with psychiatrists, of health professionals frowning at his meal schedule.

He somehow doubts Perrie’s words. He stays silent.

“Some warning would’ve been nice.” She says, and her tone takes on a whiny quality.

“Pez,” Zayn snaps, “Had a lot more to think about than giving you a heads up.”

“Yeah,” Perrie says, mulish, “Well, whatever. What’re you doing now?”

“Right now I’m in my living room and Ron Swanson is grieving his barber and I’m waiting on some takeaway to arrive–”

“I didn’t mean _now_ , dickhead,” Perrie interrupts, and he can hear the smile in her voice. It relaxes him, makes him less inclined to remember the guilt he’s been carrying since he can remember, “I meant what are you doing now that you’re no longer... ?” She trails off, and he sends a silent thanks her way for not saying it out loud, for not acknowledging that he’s essentially upturned his life and has no fucking clue what he’s doing just that he needed to leave, needed to breathe again.

“Got to record an album,” Zayn mutters, picking at his black joggers distractedly. His plain white t-shirt hangs off of him. He should probably eat something. “Then I can’t sign for a year.”

Perrie hisses out a breath; he knows it’s harsh, knows he’s going to have to work his arse off to keep himself relevant, but– well, it’s worth it. He knows it’s worth it.

“You can still feature, right?” The doorbell rings a few times, and Zayn pushes himself off the couch to get the door, stomach grumbling, “We can have you on a Mix track, and of course you’ll be asked to feature with other artists but just as a beginning–” His mobile’s still against his ear when he opens the door, but he almost drops it at what’s in front of him. Or who, really.

Perrie’s still nattering on in his ear.

“Zayn,” Liam breathes as he looks up, pushing off from the wall he’d been leaning against. He looks like he hasn’t slept since Zayn last saw him, bare-ass naked and looking over his shoulder at Zayn with a smile. The circles under his eyes are bruised dark, the jean shorts and t-shirt he’s sporting rumpled and possibly stained. His beard is unkempt, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. His brown eyes look tired, exhausted. It’s the worst Zayn’s ever seen him, and Zayn saw Liam after he broke up with Danielle. That wasn’t fake, and neither is this. “Please let me in.”

“Zayn?” Perrie shrieks, and he winces, pulling the phone away from his ear a bit, “Is that Liam? Fuck off, right now! Is that Liam?!”

“Please,” His voice breaks clean through the middle, and Zayn’s shock suddenly turns into misery, the kind he’s been fending off for days, ignoring because he just wanted a break from everything. “Please, Zayn.”

“You let him in, Zayn Malik!” Perrie yells in his ear, “ _Let him in–!_ ”

Zayn ends the call, pockets his phone, and stands aside, holding the door wide open.

It’s like they don’t know how to be around each other anymore. Now that Zayn knows what Liam’s willing to do to keep him happy, now that Zayn knows he can’t... can’t _face_ Liam anymore; now that it’s all out in the open, there’s only silence.

Liam sits down on Zayn’s couch, gives a tired huff of laughter at the paused Leslie Knope on the television. He’s leaning on his elbows and looking down at his clasped hands, knuckles white.

“I just–” He breaks off, huffing again, smiling wryly down at his hands as he twists and turns them, like he’s trying to distract himself.

For a few moments there’s nothing but the sound of the air conditioning, a quiet humming.

“Why’d you leave?” Liam blurts out, looking up at Zayn standing by the doorway into the living room from the kitchen, the best word for it even if there’s no door there. “I mean, I thought–” He stops himself, looks back down at his fidgeting hands, “I guess I don’t know what I thought, really.”

Zayn stares down at the foot of the couch, shifting his jaw in his discomfort, swallowing thickly and trying to keep his eyes dry.

“I love you, Zayn,” Liam says, and Zayn flinches, missing the hurt look on Liam’s face at that, “I love you, but I feel like you’ve been shit to me. I–” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his haggard face, “I just want us to be _us_ again.”

The similar phrasing trips Zayn up, makes his anger rush in like raging bull, purely instinctive.

“I could’ve maybe dealt with it from the others,” starts Zayn – abruptly if the look on Liam’s face is anything to go by – “And that’s a big, fat maybe. But from you?” Zayn shakes his head, disgust lacing his every word. He feels sick with it. The audacity of Liam to come here and accuse _Zayn_ of being shit to him? The nerve he has to say he loves him like that? You don’t do this to the people you love. At least, not if you’re _in love_ with them. Zayn remembers that much at least.

Liam frowns deeply, and Zayn considers it a moment of weakness that the observation he’s cute pops into his head.

“I don’t understand,” Liam announces slowly, standing up and turning to face Zayn, “We love each other. I thought you were happy.”

Zayn inhales sharply, tries not to let the words crush him. The confirmation is almost worse than what happened. Liam just wants him to be happy. It’s a cruel kind of irony that in trying to make Zayn happy, Liam did the exact opposite.

“You don’t love me,” Zayn chokes out, continuing quickly when Liam opens his mouth to reply, “Not like that.”

“Bloody hell,” Liam groans, walking forward a couple of paces so they’re only a few metres from one another. Zayn leans against the wall to his right, fatigue wearing him down. “Yes, I do. We’ve been through this.”

“You only think you love me.” Zayn closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gather himself enough to end this conversation as quickly as he can so he can push everything away and deal with it later. He’s just so _tired._ “You loved me enough to give me what I wanted, to sleep with me so I wouldn’t leave the band.” He opens his eyes, blinking back tears. Liam looks gobsmacked, his head reared back like Zayn just dealt him a physical blow. “But Liam–”

“What?” Liam’s voice cuts through Zayn’s like a whip, sharp and unrelenting. His eyes are hard like crystal, his expression flat. “You thought I’d do that to you? You thought I’d–!“

He breaks off, shaking his head as he rubs a hand over his mouth. Zayn sees the ring, does a double-take.

“I can’t believe you’d think that of me,” continues Liam, and Zayn steps back as he comes forward, leaning more heavily into the wall like Zayn’ll disappear straight through it, “Maybe Harry was right. Maybe I should just leave it.” He sucks his lips into his mouth, gives a wry smile.

Zayn’s heart curls in on itself, shudders, and so he blurts out, “I know you love me,” Liam’s eyes snap to him, anguished, “I know you do, Liam. It’s just... it’s just better if I leave.”

It’s like that renews something inside Liam, only to break him apart again. His face cracks open, his sadness pours out, and Zayn has to look away.

“You’re leaving me?”

Zayn prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, letting the pain of that deserved punch remind him of what’s at stake, of what he needs to do. They might not see it now, they might not see it in five years – but this is better for everyone, Liam included. Zayn’s doing this for himself, but he’s not so heartless as to realise he’s also doing it for them, the four boys who got him through the last four years.

“I’m leaving the band.” Zayn declares.

“Okay,” Liam rushes to say, walking toward Zayn until they’re only a few feet apart, “But are you leaving _me?_ ”

Zayn looks at him – he looks at his determined eyes; his wide, sure shoulders – and he falters.

“They’re...” He clears his throat, pushing off the wall as his eyes flick down to the ring sitting comfortably on Liam’s right hand, “not the same to you?”

“Of course they’re not the bloody same to me!” Liam exclaims, flinging his arms out in frustration. “I’m bloody in love with you, alright? If the band’s making you so unhappy,” He grabs Zayn’s shoulders, his fingers digging in underneath Zayn’s inked biceps, “then I _want_ you to leave it! I want you to be happy, and I was hoping that was with me!”

He’s breathing heavily, a vice grip on Zayn, eyes on the verge of wild.

“I just...” He softens, arms squeezing Zayn gently, “I’m in love with you. That’s why I made love to you,” He catches Zayn’s eyes, pleading, “No other reason.”

Their heavy breathing is the only thing Zayn can hear for a few tense seconds before he collapses forward, burying his face in the space between Liam’s neck and shoulder as Liam’s arms come around him, tight.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn gasps, “I’m so sorry, Liam, I thought–”

Liam’s hands cradle Zayn’s face and push him back so they can look at each other. There’s an incredulous smile stretching Liam’s mouth and relief in his eyes.

“You’re so,” He kisses Zayn, hard and punishing, “ _Idiotic._ ” Pulls back, frowns. “That’s a word, yeah?”

Zayn laughs, throwing his arms around Liam properly, mumbling into his neck.

“Yeah, babe. That’s a word. _Fuck,_ I love you. I’m so in love with you.”

It feels like hours that they stand there embracing, arms tight around each other, hearts pumping right up against one another – not in sync, but one right after the other, like Zayn’s heart is chasing Liam’s, hot on its heels.

“I’ve been so cruel to you,” Zayn says, finally pulling back, pushing Liam’s wayward strands behind his ear, “I’m really sorry, _Jaan_.”

Liam’s cheeks push up with the force of his grin, eyes crinkling; Zayn’s favourite thing about him.

“I love it when you call me that,” Liam confesses quietly, sweeping a thumb underneath Zayn’s left eye, the pad of it brushing Zayn’s eyelashes and making something within him flutter, “I’m sorry, too. For not saying anything,” He drops his eyes to Zayn’s lips, his thumb dipping down to press in, make his bottom lip red, “For–”

Zayn crushes their mouths together, muffling the sounds of Liam’s apology.

“Zayn!” Liam giggles, trying to push him away only to fall victim to another kiss, tender and slow, “I’m trying to apologise!”

Zayn ignores him, attacks Liam again, licking into his mouth and tasting love and happiness and _the future_.

“ _Jaan,_ ” Zayn whispers against Liam’s lips, grinning as he pushes Liam further back, searching for that couch so he can climb on top of Liam and kiss him until their lips are numb and the takeaway guy has long gone, Zayn’s Thai food well and truly cold, “ _Jaan, Jaan, Jaan, Jaan–_ ”

Liam’s laugh gets muffled by Zayn’s lips again as he stumbles back, falling spectacularly to the floor and bringing Zayn with him. Lucky it’s carpeted.

“ _Jaan, Jaan, Jaan._ ” Zayn mutters into Liam’s mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw. Liam’s right hand circles Zayn’s wrist and Zayn flips their hands so he can bring it to his mouth, kiss the metal on Liam’s ring finger.

Liam grabs Zayn’s face, smashes their mouths together.

“ _Jaan._ ” He whispers, hoarse and clumsy, his eyes locked with Zayn’s.

Their shared grins are blinding.

 

***

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

 

“Babe!” Liam calls out, his voice resonating throughout the house, “Where’d you put the tinsel?”

“The Batman tinsel, or the normal tinsel?” Zayn yells back, smiling at Liam’s guilty pause. “It’s in the costume box!”

“Why’s it in the bloody costume box?” Liam queries as he walks in five minutes later, costume box in hand.

“Because I like to pretend we don’t consider it a legitimate Christmas decoration.” Zayn retorts, sipping his tea. Liam huffs, dropping the box at his feet and pulling said tinsel from it. He adds it to the mismatched tree, its black and yellow Batman symbols glinting against the colourful string lights.

“You could help, you know.” Liam grumbles at him, trying to get the tinsel perfectly arranged. Zayn puts his mug down, smiling.

“I could,” he admits, setting his elbow on the kitchen counter and resting his chin in his palm, “Or I could watch _you_. You’re so hot when you work, _Leeyum_.”

Liam rolls his eyes, but a light blush still begins to darken his cheeks, making Zayn laugh.

“Christmas is your holiday, anyway,” Zayn adds on, picking up his mug to take another sip of tea, “When it comes to _Eid_ , I can do the decorating.”

“There’s no decorating for _Eid_.” Liam tells him, deadpan, as a bauble decides to drop off the tree and bounce away. Rhino watches it with disinterest from his dog bed, plopping his head back down once it rolls out of sight.

“Exactly,” Zayn replies, smirking, “I’ve told you, Muslims are smart. Good food and good people, that’s all you need.”

“You say this like you don’t celebrate Christmas,” teases Liam, abandoning the tree decorations and coming over to steal a mouthful of Zayn’s tea. He pulls a face, most likely at the lack of sugar.

“You do that every time,” Zayn states with exasperation, “You know it doesn’t have enough sugar for you. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Liam shrugs, bringing his right hand up to brush at the corner of Zayn’s mouth, “You look so satisfied every time you drink it. Makes me want some.”

“You’re a donut.” Zayn says, fighting back a fond smile. Liam’s eyes crinkle, and he hums in faux agreement, leaning down to kiss Zayn softly.

Zayn breaks away, knows he’d kiss Liam all night if he didn’t.

“Thank you for this.” Zayn says quietly, scratching at Liam’s light beard.

“It’ll be fine,” Liam consoles him, pecking Zayn’s nose and making him scrunch up his face in embarrassment, “Trust me.”

Liam’s not wrong, exactly. It’s not fine, but it’s not terrible like Zayn predicted, either.

“Merry Christmas.” Louis mutters, shoving a perfectly wrapped present into Zayn’s lax hands. Impeccably wrapped? That’s Harry’s doing.

The Christmas party doubling as a housewarming is loud behind Zayn, Liam’s laughter heard even from their front door. Zayn feels goofy in his terrible Christmas jumper, unused to something so gaudy when his family don’t even celebrate Christmas. They’re all here, though. Doniya talking with Ruth, Waliyha commiserating with Nicola. They’ve got friends here, too. Perrie’s been trying to force feed Zayn mulled wine all night, but he’s been too nervous to indulge her. Nervous for this, standing on his front doorstep.

“Going to invite us in?” Harry prompts, eyebrows raised. Louis looks angry, but it’s a childish anger – like Harry dragged him here when he’d much rather be playing with toy cars at home.

“Right,” Zayn kicks into gear, throwing the door open wider and moving back so they can brush past him, “Come in.”

Harry’s first, his fur coat ostentatious but _working_ in the way only Harry can pull fashion off. Louis follows, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, some sort of denim lined with shearling.

“No one else really brought gifts–”

“I told you.” Louis hisses, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“So, ahh,” Zayn hesitates, looking between the two as Harry sheds his coat and scarf to reveal a bright red Hawaiian shirt coupled with his token black jeans, “I’ll put this under the tree, I s’pose.”

He shuts the door and moves past his two ex bandmates; the stairs on his left look inviting but Zayn promised Liam he’d stay all night. He places the present under the tree – filled to the brim with gifts because Liam’s family are staying with them for Christmas – and knows the other two are waiting at the door to the study to follow him deeper into the house.

Liam’s singing into a karaoke mic when they enter the back area, kitchen and living combined into a wide open space, the back walls a complete set of floor to ceiling windows. It’s snowing outside and the evening lights from their party give it an ethereal glow. They’re not as far north as Bradford, but they’re close enough that the warmth inside feels like a comforting cocoon, the snow beautiful rather than a hindrance.

“And children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow,” Liam croons, then holds his microphone out for his family.

“The snow!” They sing back at him. He laughs, gaze sliding over them to see Zayn enter, Harry and Louis in tow. His eyes light up and he shoves the microphone into his father’s hands. Geoff looks stunned, mouth parted in surprise as his family cheers him on.

Harry’s trying not to smile, Zayn can tell, but he fails spectacularly when Liam’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he approaches. He pulls Harry into a hug, tight and long.

“Geoff looks amazing.” says Harry, eyes looking to Liam’s dad as they break away from each other. Liam looks back, laughs at the red face of his embarrassed father.

“I’ve got to get it from somewhere.” Liam retorts, turning to Louis to bring him into a hug as well. Zayn stands beside Liam, awkward and unsure of his limbs.

“Get here alright?” Liam asks, patting Louis on the shoulder heavily as they separate, his face concerned. “Snow’s been picking up.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“It was fine, Payno. Christ, you’re ridiculous. Where’s your alcohol?”

“It’s over by the food,” Liam says, and suddenly his fingers are threading through Zayn’s, hand big and warm, “Presume you’re not driving, then?”

Louis flips him off, pushes past him to get to the alcohol. He flings his arms out only a couple of steps away from them, gives his signature “Oi, oi!” when he glimpses Nick Grimshaw, walking over to him.

“Nialler coming?” Liam asks Harry, who's looking at Zayn like he’s trying to figure him out. Zayn shifts, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” Harry answers slowly, gaze dragging back to Liam, “He’s drivin’ in from London tonight. Should be about now, actually.” Harry’s gaze flicks back to Zayn.

“Perfect,” Liam says, and he sounds ecstatic about it. Zayn’s stomach cramps, his hands sweating. Liam rubs his thumb back and forth over Zayn’s, looks to him. “You eaten, babe?”

“Yeah,” Zayn croaks, bringing his free hand up to his mouth as he clears his throat, “Yeah. I’ll have some more later.”

“Brill– oi!” Liam looks over Harry’s shoulder to Waliyha. Zayn’s sister is taking the leftover Batman tinsel down from their sconces with the help of Safaa, the both of them with identical grimaces on their faces, “Wali!”

He shoves past Harry – offering up a hasty apology – to stop the desecration of his favourite Christmas decoration.

They look at each other for a minute or two, and Zayn balls his fists, the sting of his nails in his palm distracting him from the awkwardness of this encounter. He hasn’t seen Harry since Vienna. He’s heard him on speakerphone, he’s glimpsed him at award shows. But they’ve never spoken, never even locked eyes.

“You look well, Zayn,” Harry says, eyes piercing. Zayn remembers late night phone calls, remembers the cold way Harry had stared at him when Zayn told them he was leaving. Harry bought the gift. Harry dragged Louis here. “Truly.”

_ Have yourself a Merry little Christmas now...  _ Mel Torme croons, karaoke seemingly finished. _Liam picks the corniest soundtracks,_ Zayn thinks fondly.

Zayn smiles at him, small and thankful. Harry grins back.

“How’s Louis?” Zayn asks, crossing his arms. He can’t think of anything else to say, even if the tension seems to have lessened.

“Embarrassed,” replies Harry promptly, biting back a smile, “Probably best to let him come to you.”

Zayn nods, looking behind Harry to see Safaa trying to climb Liam, Waliyha nowhere to be seen. A warmth fills him, a warmth for his family and for Liam. Six months of conversations about the future, of family dinners and _Eid_ and birthdays and now Christmas. Six months of dealing with being torn apart by even the most forgiving of media, of Liam breaking up with Sophia, of early morning Skype calls and phone sex. They’re here now, with a few more tattoos and a lot more excitement. Zayn’s writing, Liam’s resting, and they’re together, most important of all.

“If you hurt him again,” Harry says, casually – and he’s looking at Louis, fond smile on his face. Zayn’s not sure whether they’re discussing Liam or Louis; but at this point Zayn supposes it doesn’t much matter. “Not sure I’ll see you.”

The way he says it, like it’s expected, like anyone would do the same; Zayn gets it. They’re not best friends anymore... but they can be friends, maybe.

“Same goes for you.” Zayn says coolly, remembering Caroline and Taylor and the look on Louis’ face. Harry looks back at him and they hold each other’s eyes for a few seconds.

“Harry Styles!” Someone indistinct shouts, and Zayn takes his chance to turn away.

The party goes on, and Zayn caves, sculls some mulled wine with a pinched look on his face. Perrie cheers, Leigh Anne right alongside her. He’s just grabbed a famous Payne mince pie when he bumps into someone, mouth full.

“So’ree,” He chokes out, coughing.

“Alright, bud,” Niall says with a grin, hand pounding on Zayn’s back, “Be careful.”

“Nialler,” Zayn rasps, eyes watering. He accepts the drink shoved at him, takes a gulp of beer that he hates. Better than nothing, though. Once he’s recovered, he realises who exactly is in front of him. “Niall.”

“Yeah, mate,” Niall confirms. Zayn realises absently that his hair needs a dye. It looks good, though, like that. Like Niall is a little more Niall, and less Niall Horan, one fourth of One Direction. “Just got in.”

There’s no pause, no hesitation to it, when Niall pulls him in roughly, hugging him tight to his forest green henley, a little thicker than Zayn remembers Niall being.

“Missed ya, Zayn,” Zayn can hear the grin in his tone, “Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

“Alrigh’,” Zayn concedes, pulling back to search Niall’s face. There’s no malice, no hard feelings. His shoulders relax, the fear he’s been carrying in them finally disappearing, “Love you, Niall.”

“Love you, too, Zayn.” He smiles at Zayn. “Where’s Payno?” Niall looks around, gulps down a mouthful of beer.

“I think he’s with Andy.” Zayn tells him, turning toward where he last saw Liam. He’s right.

Harry’s red Hawaiian shirt is only a few short metres away from Zayn’s boyfriend, and Zayn glimpses denim and shearling behind him.

“The whole crew!” Niall exclaims, grabbing Zayn by the shoulder and leading him forward.

“–fuck off, Andy! You’re talking a load of rubbish–” Liam’s cutting through the air with his palms, irate, as they approach. Zayn rolls his eyes. He bets the Batman tinsel that they’re talking about Fifa.

“Mate,” Andy says, brows raised sceptically, “I’m tellin’ you, I beat your high score _months_ ago–”

“Babe,” Zayn interrupts loudly, wrapping an arm around Liam’s waist, rucking up his stupid Christmas jumper to touch skin. Liam looks to him, leans down automatically for a kiss that goes on a few seconds too long if Andy’s pointed cough is anything to go by. “Niall’s here.” Zayn mutters against Liam’s lips, sees his eyes dart to the left past Zayn.

“Horan!” Liam booms, and Zayn extracts himself so Liam can greet him.

He hovers – missing Liam, of course, but also because Niall’s not likely to let things be awkward. He daydreams a bit, though, his eyes moving around the room. They settle on his parents by the fireplace, his dad’s face annoyed. His mum looks smug, so it looks like she’s won another academic discussion. Doniya joins in, also smug. Zayn coughs to hide his laugh, cheeks burning when Liam looks at him with a fond smile.

It’s only a few songs into the formation of the dance floor that Liam tugs at Zayn’s wrist, coaxing him.

“C’mon, babe,” Liam urges, eyes wide and definitely not innocent, “Just once dance. You’re a great dancer, you know you are.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but can’t help the pleased flush at Liam’s compliment. Liam knows it, too, because his smile turns into a full-blown grin.

_ Everyone dancin' merrily, in the new old-fashioned way!_ sounds out of the speakers, and Liam’s dragged him close enough to the dance floor that when the trumpets start up he simply pulls Zayn in, hand at his waist and the other enveloping Zayn’s, the metal of his ring warm against Zayn’s fingers. He rocks them back and forth, goofy and unabashed. Zayn’s laughing, burying his head in Liam’s shoulder, trying not to react to the jeers of his sisters. Zayn looks up, sees Liam’s own siblings smiling at Liam, a certain kind of pride in their eyes. 

In a moment like this – as Liam swings Zayn from side to side – it’s easy to forget everything they’ve been through. Zayn remembers, though. He remembers the lies; he remembers the pain. Zayn remembers the sight of the ring on Liam’s finger for the first time. Zayn remembers falling off that stage, tired and exhausted and sad. He remembers waking up, not knowing. He remembers everything before that; the tears and the phone calls and the meetings with management. Zayn remembers Christmas a year ago, when Liam only sent him a _happy holidays, zaynieeeeeeee_.

Zayn remembers it all, because it makes the now so much better. It makes the way Liam laughs against his mouth warm and satisfying, not an empty sentiment like he feared for so long.

They spin, nearly bumping into a table of drinks and earning the scowls of some of their friends. Zayn laughs, eyes dancing around the room, catching someone’s.

Louis looks at him. Harry’s got an arm around his shoulders and he’s talking to whoever’s opposite them. Louis looks at Zayn, though – gives the smallest quirk of his lips – and nods.

Zayn knows then that he made the right choice. _I’m not going to forget_ , he thinks as Liam distracts him; kisses him slow and sweet.

_ I don’t want to forget. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you all alive?
> 
> Well, this has been a ride! I first got the idea for this fic months ago, and it was actually Liam's "We're friends." that was the first thing to be written. It was going to be a 20k oneshot but as you can see it soon grew into so much more. I don't know why but I was feeling particularly angsty. I'd like to thank [Lucy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythegoosey/pseuds/lucythegoosey/works) for being my critique partner, and always checking in to see that I was writing regularly. This was her first Ziam experience, so kudos to her. And thanks to you, readers. I loved seeing your comments.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com). Happy holidays!


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